by Alan Jansen
I have left out a few pages of Uncle’s diary account of the outcome of the meeting with the solicitors – it was all legal tripe anyway – and have written the above passage just to keep you, my readers, abreast of events. Uncle’s next few pages in his diary make the mind boggle:
I had to do something about it all. Of course, I could buy Julia and Jim some extra land on the south side of the farm, but an apple orchard would take a few years to give fruit if newly planted. Besides, the spot that awful woman had encroached – seemingly legally – with her new barbed wire fence and all that was my dear Julia’s favourite spot. I just had to win back the confiscated land by hook or by crook. Racking my brains, I did come up with a foolproof plan and didn’t waste time putting it into action. I contacted Rogers, my chauffer-cum-dogsbody who lived in my chateau in France. Amongst other diverse duties, Rogers looked after my Rolls Royce and other vehicles with the zeal of a true and dedicated motor enthusiast. I sent instructions to Rogers, requesting him to take the ferry together with my Rolls to England and meet me at the Ritz Hotel in London. I hastily explained to Julia that I would be away for a few days on business, and took the milk train to London that very evening. At the Ritz, where I was booked in and had also booked a room for Rogers, I outlined my plans to my faithful chauffer. Rogers didn’t blink an eyelid as I gave him his instructions. The man had done many odd things for me before; I trusted him implicitly. My trust was mutual. Stopping short of murder, Rogers would do anything for me.
The next day found us motoring down from London, our destination being Lady Janet’s mansion. From the main road, I instructed Rogers to take a smaller road at a deviating fork, which I knew would take us directly to our terminus. Well at our journey’s end, we found an impressive iron gate leading to the mansion, blocking any further progress. A high wall shut off most of the view of the house, but through the ribs of the gate we saw an impressive Georgian mansion that had a large conservatory – the latter structure probably a new addition. I had, of course, seen a part of the grounds and the silhouette of the great mansion from Julia’s own garden, but I couldn’t help but be impressed by what I saw close up. I asked Rogers to open the bonnet of the car and keep it propped up to give the impression we were having some sort of motor trouble. Rogers then ambled over to the gate and rang a small electric bell that was mounted on the wall beside it. After a good five minutes, a uniformed elderly man turned up and politely inquired what we wanted. I recognized the traditional British servility in this old manservant and decided to put on the old charm. Although I speak impeccable English, I’ve always had a slight French accent, and I’ve found – strangely enough – that it never ceased to impress the British aristocracy, as well as the serving classes, especially servants in big manor houses and the like.
‘My good fellow! My dear fellow! We’ve had a spot of engine trouble, as you can no doubt fathom. My Rolls just refuses to go any further, and I really need to come in and use the telephone to contact the nearest garage. Kindly inform your master or mistress of my situation and my desire to use the telephone.’
The man took in my accent, glanced obliquely at my gleaming black Rolls, the open bonnet, and my liveried chauffer Rogers, and then shifted his attention totally to me, assessing me from head to foot. I had purposely dressed in the height of fashion. Well-polished hand-sewn leather black shoes, a three-piece Saville Row suit, a sober tie, a shiny gold silk vest, a white silk scarf carelessly slung over my shoulders, and a pair of soft Madova gloves, detached from my fingers and held casually in my hands, made a convincing statement. Impressed by what he saw, the man said almost immediately, ‘Wait awhile, sir. I’ll inform Her Ladyship immediately.’
Within a few minutes, he was back at the gate.
‘Lady Janet will be pleased to see you in the drawing room, sir. Please follow me.’
‘Thank you, my good man. Please open the gate so that Rogers here can push the car inside a bit, where he can try and sort out what’s wrong. I’ll be much obliged if you can help him to push it in.’
There was of course nothing wrong with my Rolls, the car’s alleged breakdown being just a ruse for me to get inside the house and carry out my dastardly plan. Lady Janet’s servant did as I bid, and between the duo, and with a little help from me, we pushed the car in, whereupon the gate was closed behind us. I followed the manservant up the drive and into the entrance of the house, where the fellow rang the front bell and then quietly backed away, just as a butler dressed solemnly in a black liveried uniform answered.
‘Good morning, sir. Her Ladyship will see you in the study. Just follow me, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ I said in a superior sort of voice as I followed the butler into the study, where Lady Janet De Court Plutney was seated on a large sofa awaiting me.
Lady Janet must have been in her early forties, a very handsome, big-busted woman with wavy dark hair culminating in a well-coiffured bun of sorts at the back. As she rose to greet me, I couldn’t help but notice her broad hips and her height. I am just under six feet, but she easily reached up to me, probably even an inch or so taller. The lower part of her dress seemed unusually broad too, a small matter that caught my eagle eye, and the reason for which I came to learn later that night …
‘My dear, dear lady! I beg a thousand pardons for imposing on you like this. My name is Chevalier Pierre Gaston de Descamps, and I live in the South of France. England is like a second home to me; I know your country quite well. We were motoring up to Liverpool to catch the ferry to Douglas in the Isle of Man. I have a very important business meeting there in a few days’ time, but I decided to travel down early in order to have a few days’ holiday as well. Besides, I have this awful fear of flying in aeroplanes, you see, being most reluctant to travel in those infernal machines unless absolutely necessary. My car is refusing to go any further, quite content only to send off gushes of steam through its bonnet. My chauffer, Rogers, needs a quiet place where he can tinker with it and see what’s wrong. Could I use your telephone, good lady? And your telephone catalogue as well? I need to call the nearest garage in a while after Rogers has examined the car in detail and lets me know what’s wrong. If it is a major repair, I’ll have to make some other travel arrangements, probably take a train from the nearest station. If the matter is not so serious, Rogers and I can stay in the closest inn for a day or two until the car is fixed.’
Lady Janet looked me over shrewdly, appraising my impeccable clothes and shoes and the expensive Chesterfield all-season overcoat I had casually slung over my right arm. I purposely held my Madova gloves clutched loosely in the fingers of the same arm. Two gold rings, intricate and finely encrusted with diamonds – very noticeable on my fingers – completed my debonair and classy appearance. Lady Janet raised her pencilled-over plucked eyebrows approvingly and introduced herself graciously enough.
‘My name is Lady Janet De Court Plutney, and yes, of course, you can use my phone, Chevalier. The phone catalogue is by the table over there near the door. You can call any time you like. In the meantime, let me get you some refreshment. I’m quite sure you must be quite disturbed by your ordeal.’
‘Extraordinarily kind of you, dear lady,’ I replied with a stiff bow, as Lady Janet walked over to a side of the wall and pulled a bell drapery by the door. Within minutes, a maid answered the summons, a look of great servility written all over her face. Lady Janet barked out a few commands to the maid, and in a few minutes my hostess and I were both indulging in a cup of tea and a few finger sandwiches of cucumber and fish paste brought in by the maid.
‘Chevalier is a kind of knight in France, isn’t it?’ inquired Lady Janet, opening a little chat.
‘Yes, dear lady, it is! My title is hereditary, though. I haven’t been knighted personally, although my solicitor has informed me that your own gracious queen is on the verge of including me on the list of honours for next year – a British knighthood, you know! – the category she awards
for outstanding businessmen who have helped to promote the kingdom’s financial cause.’
‘Really, Chevalier? Why, that’s amazing news! And is there a wife somewhere in France? I’m not sure what a female chevalier is called. My late husband was a knight, and over here in Britain we are most often given the title of ‘Dame’, although everyone in the village calls me Lady Janet. An ignorant lot, you know, our village folk – dullards almost! And is there a female chevalier? I mean, are you married? I really don’t know what a wife of a chevalier is called. Perhaps you can enlighten me?’
‘Alas, my poor wife died in a boating accident a few years ago, dear lady, and I am presently without a life companion. … And yes, to answer your other question, a wife of a chevalier is called a chevaleresse, that is if she hasn’t earned the title herself through some singular merit. If she has earned the title by some worthy and outstanding deed, then she would be called a chevalière.’
‘Oh! How sad!’ she exclaimed. ‘About your wife, that is,’ she added hastily. ‘But how very interesting to know of a chevaleresse. I’ve never heard that term before!’
‘Please call me Pierre, my lady. No need for us aristocrats to stick to titles when we talk to each other.’
Lady Janet smirked in contentment at my including her in the aristocracy class and wasn’t slow to accede to my request, as I was sure would happen.
‘Of course, Pierre! And please do call me Janet.’
At that precise moment, Rogers made an appearance into the study, announced by the elderly butler.
‘There is nothing seriously wrong with the car, Your Lordship.’ (Nice touch by Rogers here to elevate me to a lord.) ‘The fan belt’s packed up, and the steam from the car was the radiator getting heated up without the cooling fan working. I am sure the nearest garage can supply us with an improvised fan belt until I can order the original Rolls part once we are at the Isle of Man.’
‘Why, that’s excellent news! Just check up on the address of the closest garage and get about it, my good fellow. How long do you think we will be incapacitated, eh?’
‘Couldn’t say for sure, Your Lordship. At the most, two days maybe, but with some luck, just overnight perhaps.’
‘All right, Rogers. Use the phone now. After you have finished calling, I will call the nearest inn and book us two rooms for the night.’
Here, Lady Janet intervened hastily, as I’d expected …
‘Nonsense, my dear Pierre. We have plenty of unused rooms. I can put you over for the night, and even longer if you need. I will not hear of you staying at an inn. You will be much more comfortable here than in one of those awful places. And we can easily find a room for your man in the servants’ quarters. It’s just louts and plebeians that you find in those damn inns and small hotels. Not fit for a man of your standing.’
‘That’s most generous of you, Lady Janet. Most generous indeed! It would be so convenient if we could stay here.’
‘That’s settled then. Let your chauffer tinker away with the car in the driveway outside. In the meantime, you can use our facilities to wash and refresh yourself if you want. Lunch will be served shortly. Perhaps we can have a drink or two before that. Your man can eat with the servants at the domestics’ quarters.’ Saying thus, she rose to leave, but not before giving me an encouraging smile that portended something deeper could be on the cards – exactly as I was anticipating …
Later on in the drawing room while I was sipping whisky before lunch with Lady Janet, Rogers came in, announced by the butler. ‘My lord, I have called the local garage people here, and the owner informed me that he could get a Rolls fan belt from the closest town of Rothwell, where they have a Rolls Royce showroom and even stock a few parts. He said he could get it for me tomorrow morning, as he would be travelling to Rothwell on some other business. He will bring the fan belt here to Her Ladyship’s mansion. Apart from the cost of the fan belt, he is expecting a standard fee for his trouble.’
‘Why, that’s excellent news, Rogers. This means we will be able to resume our journey tomorrow. You can relax now. Perhaps read the newspapers or take a little stroll around the grounds or something, eh? Lady Janet has ordered Gudgeon the butler to arrange a room for you, where you could shower and relax after lunch. I believe the room is already in order. Just ask Gudgeon to show you.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ (I was getting quite comfortable with Rogers addressing me as ‘my lord’, and that with so much reverence! It ought to impress Lady Janet even further, I thought.) ‘Mr Gudgeon has already shown me my room, my lord. Thank you, sir.’
After Rogers walked away, I turned my attention back to Lady Janet, or rather she turned her full attention to me, asking, ‘I know you said you are in some huge business venture, Pierre, and it must be wonderful to be included in next year’s knighthood lists, but is there anything you do in your free time? Can’t be immersed in high finance all the time, what?’
‘My dear Lady Janet, of course I do keep myself occupied. I have to, you know! I mean, my business almost takes care of itself. I have a secretary and staff who manage my estates and other affairs to my greatest satisfaction. I do look in now and then, of course, to check on things, but apart from an annual meeting where the shareholders are present, I am free to do the thing I really like.’
‘And pray, what’s that, Chevalier? Is it travel, or maybe you collect antiques or something like that?’
‘Oh, no! I do like travel, Janet [I called her Janet for the first time], and my house is full of antiques picked up down the years, but portrait painting is my passion. I’ve become quite good at it. You see, I have this marvellous technique where I photograph my models first and then work on the actual painting on canvas at my leisure. This way, even my models are spared the tiresome task of sitting or standing for hours. Of course, my clients are all members of the aristocracy. Although I don’t overcharge them in any way, I have earned a growing reputation within art circles. Only last year I painted the French UK Embassy’s cultural attaché’s wife, at her express request, and the painting was vastly admired in a well-known Paris gallery before the good lady hung it up in the drawing room of her stately home.’
‘That’s a novel idea, Pierre. I mean, who has the time these days to sit for hours on end in front of an artist, eh? This technique of yours – taking a photograph first and then painting your subject in your own time and at your leisure – sounds so very practical. I suppose you take a series of photographs to capture the best pose possible you feel will suit your subject, eh? Or is there any special approach you have?’
I paused here to blush (a ‘manufactured’ blush) a bit, putting on an expression of immense shyness and reluctance to part with my secret. I knew I had her really interested. I was, by my own admission, a master in seducing women and had baited my hook well. Lady Janet was dangling plumb on it.
‘My dear lady! I do have a somewhat unique approach, as you call it. I really don’t know if I can reveal my method. You see, it’s all a bit too embarrassing and I don’t want to offend you. I’ve just met you; I might be taking a great liberty in letting you in on my little secret. It’s rather novel and very naughty, I’m afraid! Some would even say it’s even downright erotic!’
I knew I had her where I wanted her as soon as I mentioned the word ‘erotic’, and I wasn’t disappointed.
‘Come, come, Chevalier, we are, after all, intelligent and liberal members of the nobility. When it comes to art and culture, there are no boundaries! Both you and I know that. Why, even Michelangelo and da Vinci, to name a few, painted freely and as they knew how. Are you telling me you photograph your models in light clothing? It’s an ingenious idea, you know. One never knows what people hide under their dresses and suits and things these days.’
I decided to let her have it, to lay my cards on the table, to give her the whole hog …
‘Not light clothing, my dear! Not light clothing! I take
photographs of them in the nude. Not a stich of clothing or jewellery, and no shoes either. This way I can paint on whatever clothes my subjects suggest later on. I’ve had great success with this method, you see. And the people I paint share my secret. After all, it wouldn’t do their reputations much good if they revealed my methods. It’s all a matter of integrity and trust, and I never betray a trust. It’s a sacred code of the de Descamps, you see!’
I felt Lady Janet turning over my information in her mind. Her cheeks were flushed, and her nostrils flared like a bull in the final throes of a bullfight with a matador. She had this look of heated expectation on her face, something that augured well for what I had been planning to do.
‘How very, very interesting, my dear Pierre! Oh, there’s the gong for dinner. Let’s eat and then discuss this very unique method of yours further. It interests me a great deal. Just fancy that! No clothes at all, you say, eh? Why, it’s the Renaissance painters’ tactics all over again! Their models posed naked, and that was so long ago! And all your aristocratic clients agreeing as well! Just fancy that!’ said Lady Janet, a faraway look of something animal-like in her eyes.
After an excellent lunch, I excused myself and retired to my prepared room, where I took a refreshing nap. When I got up, it was almost dusk. Lady Janet offered to give me a tour around the garden, which I accepted. Time passed. After dinner we sat comfortably in front of the drawing room fire sipping brandy. Lady Janet became increasingly talkative. As she spoke and gestured, she turned about in her chair often, showing me generous glimpses of knickers and gartered stockings, covering her thick and round legs. It didn’t take her too long to veer the conversation back to my special technique of painting portraits that I had earlier touched upon.
‘You know, Pierre, I’ve given my thoughts to the matter of painting my own portrait a couple of times these past years. I would like mine to be painted when I still have my looks and something of my youth. We have Silas George living in the parish. I’m sure you have heard of him! He has a few of his pictures hanging in the Tate, and only last year the Times wrote a feature article about his life and work. But you see, dear [she had started to call me ‘dear’ after dinner], the man is quite old. And I positively hate old men, especially one who would stare at me hours on end painting my portrait.’