Domenico blustered a little, but he was at Zanotti’s mercy and the last bit of truth was got from him. Henry Scoble had planned murder; but a swift, unexpected, unfelt death did not content the hatred of Frances. Her subtle mind gloated over years of suffering, of destitution, of starvation, made doubly and trebly hideous by the recollection of other days of ease and luxury. She had gone “t’other side of the hedge,” as Henry Scoble had suspected. She had bribed Domenico to vary Henry Scoble’s plan, but had not foreseen that Giovanni Ferrer, instead of sinking into the gutter, was going to fill the continent with the sweetness of his voice.
“Ah, if we had only guessed that!” cried Domenico in a sudden exasperation; and Zanotti with a little cackle of laughter handed him his quill; and Domenico wrote.
There remained Fabricio Menico, the paymaster of these scoundrels. But a clerk betrayed him, and before the summer was out, Julian had all the evidence of which he stood in need.
XXIV. A LETTER FROM LONDON
ON THE TWENTIETH morning of May in the following year, Mrs. Dermaine took up her pen in London to write a letter to her cousin, Mrs. Coleby, in Yorkshire. The letter was a monthly ceremony. Mrs. Dermaine denied her door during its compilation to her dearest friends. There must be absolute quiet throughout the house. To seclude herself the more completely with her thoughts and inspirations, she wrote in a room at the back of her house in Dorset Gardens which looked out only upon the noiseless growth of flowers. She was not a blue-stocking. She prided herself, indeed, on moving upon other days in the very maelstrom of polite society. But she undoubtedly nursed a hope that at some future date a dainty volume with decorative uncials would correct the historians of her time by the observations of a shrewd and impartial witness. It is to be deplored that Mrs. Coleby, less concerned with the gossip of London town than with her dogs and horses, dropped the letters into the fire as soon as she had read them. One or two sheets with burnt edges, however, were retrieved by one of the chambermaids and made pleasant reading in the servants’ hall for the gentlemen’s gentlemen who came with their masters to The Chase and for a wider circle afterwards.
“The latest news in the world of politics is of a speech made three days ago in the House of Lords by the Ear] of Linchcombe, a fine oration, in which vigour was expressed with the highest elegance and adorned with the most gentlemanly quotations from the Latin poets. What it was all about, my dear Anastasia, no one seems willing to explain to me, but the London Daily Post, which of course is Whig to the last drop of its ink, hailed — yes, actually hailed his Lordship as a great landlord who had harnessed science to the service of the fields and both by the zeal of his public and the discretion of his private life set an example to the youth of the country. It is said, too, that the King on reading his daily summary of Parliament cried out: ‘Dat is one damn big speech.’ In consequence, Lord Linchcombe is spoken of for the Ministry of the Board of Fisheries, which, for some reason beyond the comprehension of a poor little piece of frippery like me, is the Department of Agriculture.
“His good lady, the Countess of Linchcombe, kept his house for him in St. James’ at the beginning and made it an oasis, my dear, a veritable oasis of decorous conversation amidst the frivolities of the season. Not that cards or music or an occasional ball were eschewed, but the tone was solid, the stately aphorism rather than the crackle of the bon mot, a meeting of lofty spirits rather than of notable wits. Dull, to be sure, but highly respectable and the ante-room to Office.
“Lady Linchcombe, however, to the astonishment of the polite world, sometime in April closed her doors and retired to her great house of Grest Park. ‘We are both, in truth, country mice,’ his Lordship explained with a sigh. ‘Heigh-ho! But for my duties as a senator, I should follow in my humble way the example of Cincinnatus.’ Charming? A little grandiose perhaps and condescending, but the very accent of a nobleman destined for the Cabinet. There is, to be sure, a curious little whisper running round the town which, far from explaining the disappearance of so serene and indeed masterful a woman as the Countess of Linchcombe, makes it something of a mystery. Gossip, Anastasia, but we lap up gossip with our tea and exchange it as uncharitably as we can, like counters at a game of lansquenet. However, for your amusement rather than your credence, here it is.
“The chief, I might almost say the only sensation of the season is the new soprano from Italy — Marelli. He has quite restored the fortunes of Heidegger at the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket and has driven poor Mr. Handel back upon his oratories and cantatas. Marelli is the most astonishing creature. There has been nothing like the furore he has caused since Farinelli was in London. He has the same wide compass, the same swell and shake, the same flutelike melting notes. But whereas Farinelli was a veritable Maypole, ungainly in his movements and with the face of a pug, this lad with his fair hair, his blue eyes, his supple form and a curious mixture of imp and seraph has quite ravished the town. Moreover, he is, what we all love in our hearts farouche. He will not sing at private houses, he is never seen at a fashionable rout, he has taken a villa at Twickenham, from which he drives in a chaise to the King’s Theatre, and, though he stayed at Burlington House for a day or two on his arrival in England, he sees only a few musicians, and at times, I am told, dines en famille with a Mr. Paul Sawl, a merchant of Italian goods, who is the chief of Heidegger’s supporters.
The consequence is, of course, that the indifferent creature is more sought than ever. He went in company with a well-known dilettante, Sir James Elliot, once, on an afternoon, wrapped in a blue cloak to Vauxhall Gardens, but was recognized and so mobbed and jostled by his admirers that he and his friend had to take refuge in a funeral coach which happened to be returning empty from a churchyard. To such a pitch of extravagance has the adoration soared that a painter was introduced into the pit surreptitiously to take his portrait, and now little medallions with his likeness framed in silver are sold by the score, and not to wear upon one’s dress or coat — for even the men have gone music-mad — is to confess oneself quite outside the world of bon ton.
“Is the prelude over long? The prelude to a whisper! Is not that a title simply dying for an author? It means so little and sounds so much. Well, it is breathed that the Countess of Linchcombe, curious about one of these medallions, which a friend was wearing, asked for a nearer look at it; and when it was put into her hands, flushed scarlet in the most unbecoming way, and then turned of a deadly pallor.
“‘It can’t be,’ she murmured, sinking down upon a couch. Again she stared at the medallion and then returned it with a smile. ‘It can’t be more than an artist’s fancy. Pretty, to be sure, and a charming ornament.’
“But it was noticed, or it was supposed to be noticed, that she pleaded a headache and shortly afterwards left the house. ‘A coup de coeur, my dear,’ said the friend who told me the story, but I asked her with some asperity not to make herself ridiculous. Coups de coeur were not occasioned by pretty singing birds from Italy. But she told me that I ought to study the doctrine of the attraction of opposites.
“Instead of doing anything so foolish and wasteful in the height of the season, I made a party for the Opera. My dear, the house was crowded, and in a box opposite to me I saw Lady Linchcombe. Her husband was not with her. He, I am told, has no ear for music and if he goes anywhere, goes when the King goes to the oratorios, where at all events there is a vast amount of noise.
“The Opera which I saw was too confused in its plot for me to relate it; and the confusion was the greater because some of it was sung in English and some in Italian. I do not remember whether the name was Elmira or Almena. But there was a Dragon in it, an excellent Dragon who breathed fire and required for his meals a quota of the tenderest creatures, male and female, chosen from the choicest families. The scene opened with the landing on the island of a fresh batch of victims. They were charming, my dear. Although the scene was placed in legendary days, the young ladies wore the widest hoops and fluttered with ribands, whilst the young gentle
men were all with powdered heads, embroidered coats, high red heels and wore swords with jewelled hilts. They danced a minuet upon the sands, which was quite ravishing; and Marelli, who was condemned to be eaten because he was the true King, sang with the Signora Mancita a love duet which lifted us into the skies. Of course, I need hardly tell you, the sorceress who guarded the Dragon and fattened the young ladies and gentlemen to make them properly succulent, fell desperately in love with Marelli. There was a vast deal of intriguing between the two ladies. But, in the end, the passion of the sorceress led her to sacrifice herself. As a plot it was absurdity itself. But, my dear, the singing! There were some songs — the opera was composed by Mr. Handel’s rival, Bononcini — which I hope to hear upon my death-bed. They were so melodious and sung by Marelli with an exquisite and celestial simplicity. You will remember, Anastasia, how the second-rate torture the notes they sing. Frankly, my dear, amongst all the absurdities of the performance, the absurdity of a coup de coeur for Marelli seemed not so absurd after all.
“I was not so entranced but that I had an eye for my Lady Linchcombe. She sat well back in her box, so that with the wavering light of the wax candles it was difficult to read the expression on her face. Only once or twice she leaned forward and then held her fan before her face, so that only her eyes were visible. But she left before the curtain fell and two days later she was gone to Grest....”
At this point, Mrs. Dermaine had worn down her quill and her vocabulary was exhausted.
XXV. KIDNAPPED AND GLAD OF IT
THE SEASON WAS over, the windows of the great houses were dark, the lamps burned on deserted alleys in Vauxhall Gardens, the Opera Houses and Theatres had barred their doors, Parliament had adjourned. Lord Linchcombe was Minister for Agriculture, partridge shooting was beginning, Marelli had departed from Twickenham in his chaise; and in his parlour of the Angel, the great Posting Inn in Winchester, half-way between London and Grest, Sir James Elliot sat before a writing-table in a quandary.
He, too, had to write a letter, but he could not begin it. He was gravelled by the opening salutation.
“My dear Lord Linchcombe,” he wrote, and threw his pen down and sat back in his chair.
“But, damn it, the man’s a murderer,” he cried aloud and looked hastily round the room. Fortunately there was no one to overhear him.
All the statements and confessions which Zanotti’s subtlety and Julian’s savings had procured in Italy had been read by Elliot. There was never a clearer case to his thinking. Greed and ambition had led Henry Scoble to a plan of murder. Hatred — stark, unvarnished hatred, as Julian had called it — had urged Frances Scoble to plot a more savage and a more subtle form of the same crime. Julian had been saved — if it could be said that he had been saved — because his voice was so much finer than Frances Scoble knew, and the boy himself had subdued himself to its training.
But Elliot had pledged himself to silence; and that pledge had put him into his present quandary. Sir James was not at all a dilettante with a shot gun. He was by some accident of nature a very good shot, and each year, right away back to the days of the old Earl, he had been one of the first party to shoot the partridges at Grest. This year the invitation had come before Sir James had read Julian’s full report, and he had accepted it. After he had read the report, he had prided himself upon his diplomacy.
“If I now write excuses and say that I won’t come, I am in a way breaking my promise to Julian. I should be arousing suspicion that I know something which I am not prepared to disclose. No! I will start in my coach for Grest, making my usual stop at the Angel, and there I will be seized with a violent colic.”
This was all very good and clever. But Sir James had not remembered that he must begin with a form of address—” My dear Linchcombe,” or, since he inclined to a formality in his manners—” My dear Lord Linchcombe.”
“Well, I’ll be damned if I address the fellow so,” he reflected stubbornly.
Yet, a letter of explanation must be sent. He was expected for dinner at Grest Park the very next day. Sir James was still staring at his letter paper when the porter thrust his head in at the door.
“There’s a gentleman below asking for you, Sir James.”
“Is there, now?”
“There is.”
“And who may it be, Sam?”
Sir James had already turned his chair round in an eagerness to shut from his sight that offending sheet of paper.
“Mr. Brute Bellingham.”
A smile spread over Elliot’s face. A messenger from Heaven, a Mercury! Brute Bellingham was on his way to Grest, a thousand pounds to sixpence. Brute Bellingham should carry the sad news of his colic. Brute Bellingham should have seen him in his contortions.
“Show him up, Sam, and bring a bottle of the old Madeira,” and a moment later, “Brute, you’re a welcome sight to me.”
Brute, a broad, ruddy country squire, who farmed a small estate seven miles from Grest, responded with a grin which split his face as a fruit knife splits a melon. A queer, unlikely friendship between Brute and Sir James had begun amongst the turnips and the furrows of Grest when Brute shot over them tor the first time at the age of twenty. He had watched with the supercilious amusement of his years Elliot take his place in the row of walkers.
“Musical people can’t shoot,” he whispered to a friend. “The Lord be praised I’m not next to him!”
But his amusement changed to surprise, and his surprise to awe, as the morning advanced. For on the line which Elliot followed, birds fell, and more than fell in front of Brute Bellingham. Brute sidled up to Elliot after the ladies had left the table and with an awkward prettiness made his apologies. Elliot was delighted. What man of the town doesn’t feel an inch or so taller when he is congratulated upon his prowess in field sports? Brute Bellingham found his companion amenable to country talk, with never a word about a cantata. He began to pride himself on his association with the Arts. “My friend, Mr. Elliot — you know, the man Handel listens to when he’s in a rage,” — dropped in and out of his conversation.
“I’ll do anything you wish, Sir James,” said Brute as he smacked his lips over his Madeira.
“I want you to tell them at Grest” — Elliot could not bring his lips to shape the name— “a lie — a big, fat partridge of a lie. You saw me at the Angel, writhing, with a steaming hot poultice on my stomach, and my knees up to my chin. I couldn’t write a word, I was in such pain. What in the world is the matter?”
For Brute Bellingham was sitting with his mouth open and such a look of consternation upon his face as the Maréchal de Saxe might have worn after Fontenoy.
“My dear Sir! I counted on you — my word I did! You would show the fellow the ropes, choose the songs....”
“Songs?” cried Sir James. “I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” Bellingham returned with a chuckle. “No, nor anybody else. I thought of it, Sir James. Yes, I was the one. It wasn’t Bob Joyce of Crofton, nor Charlie Bassett of Dingle Hall. They were both — what’s the word? — Bob Joyce knew it. I’ve got it — confederates. But I thought of it all alone.”
Mr. Brute Bellingham grinned with the pride of a schoolboy who suddenly discovers that he has a brain.
“What mad scrape have you got into now?” asked Sir James.
And out the incredible fact popped.
“We’ve kidnapped the Marelli.”
“What?”
Sir James sprang to his feet. He gasped, he set his hand on the table to make sure that the world was not turning upside down. Mr. Bellingham took the Baronet’s amazement for a compliment.
“Devilish dull those little dinner parties at Grest before the shooting. Just the family, one or two relations, one or two honoured guests like you and me and Charlie Bassett. No sittin’ over your port lest you should be squint-eyed in the mornin’. Have to join the ladies over their tea and play Pope Joan for spillikins afterwards. Devilish dull. Beside
s, Henry is a Minister, got his hand in the till, eh? His politics are damnable — of course, as a Tory I know that — but if he wasn’t a Whig we’d be proud of him, with all those Latin tags catching each other up out of his mouth.”
“But what in the world has that to do with kidnapping Marelli?” cried the exasperated Sir James.
“I thought I’d make this party memorable. D’you see, Sir? Suddenly, when everybody’s yawning enough to split their faces, up I jump with my hand on my heart and say, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the famous Italian will now sing a couple of serenatas, and my friend Sir James Elliot will do the notes on the harpsichord.’ Enter Marelli, ladies in ecstasies, gentlemen ‘anything for a change,’ Frances Linchcombe flattered, Henry, ‘Ha! Ha! a kind thought, my dear Brute,’ and off we go.”
Sir James left aside the remarkable effort which would be required even from a Marelli, if he were to sing a serenata by himself and cried:
“Marelli! He’ll never consent!”
“But he has consented.”
And Sir James sat down in his chaise again. He was very quiet now and his voice thoughtful.
“I should like to hear a little more.”
Brute Bellingham obliged, beaming with pride. He had discovered when Marelli was to leave Twickenham. It was the height of good fortune that Marelli should be travelling on that western road.
“He might have been making for Grest,” said Bellingham.
Sir James thought grimly, “He was,” but took care not to say it aloud. Bellingham and his friends had lain in wait in a thicket close by the road ten miles from Winchester. They mounted their horses as Marelli’s chaise approached.
“He thought us High Toby men,” Brute Bellingham continued, “and he was out of his chair before Bob Joyce had stopped it, with a big horse pistol in his left hand and a drawn sword in his right. I was diplomatic — cracked a joke, you know. I said, ‘Come, come, Signor Macaroni, we’re not Captains of the Road,’ and what d’you think he answered? ‘You look-a so like-a it, I’ll blow the brains you ‘aven’t got-a out of your calf’s head if you come-a one leetle step nearer.’ The sort of reply which makes conversation difficult.”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 747