5

In Which I Make Daphne a Present,

 

and Berry Favours the Bold

 

Ten years had gone by.

The war was over and gone: Cousin Jill was married, and so was I: and many another change had taken place. No longer sure of the future, people laid hold upon the present with all their might: an Epicurean outlook was gaining ground.

My sister, Berry and I were still in Town: Jill was in Italy: Adèle was in Boston: Jonah was ‘somewhere abroad’.

My sister closed her engagement-book and picked up her cigarette.

“It’s been great fun,” she said, “but I shall be very glad to sleep at White Ladies again.”

“So,” said her husband, “shall I. Pomps and vanities are exacting things. To bed at three, and I’ve got to see Forsyth this morning – the Raby Trust. Moses’ bush isn’t in it.”

“Moses’ bush?” said Daphne. “What ever d’you mean?”

“Now don’t thwart me,” said her husband. “I’m not too good. Moses’ bush burned, but was not consumed. That’s why it isn’t in it. I’m burned up at both ends.”

“How d’you feel really?”

Berry regarded his wristwatch.

“Ask me about five o’clock,” he said. “I may or may not know then. Weather forecast, laousy – with an a. Is there any coffee left?”

As she refilled his cup—

“The Raby Trust,” said Daphne. “How long will that go on?”

“It’ll see me out,” said Berry. “The child’s at school.”

My sister expired.

“You must not consent,” she said, “to act any more.”

“I won’t, my darling, I won’t. I’ve given my word to Forsyth. Why people pick upon me, I cannot conceive.”

Others could. An exceptionally scrupulous Trustee, who charges nothing at all, is worth having.

“Lunch?” said Daphne.

Berry shook his head.

“I must lunch at the Club. I promised to see Jo Carey. See you at Christie’s later.”

“Perhaps,” said Daphne.

My sister did not remind him that we had been sworn to attend a private view. In fact, her one idea was that Berry should not be there. We all disliked ‘modernist painting’; but Berry’s comments upon it were most embarrassing.

To fortify our souls for the visit, we lunched at the Berkeley Grill.

As we entered the gallery—

“We needn’t stay long,” said Daphne. “Just once round. Oh, my God, there he is – with Lady Morayne. He would choose her.” Lady Morayne was at once outspoken and deaf. “Quick, Boy. Before he sees us.”

But Berry’s eye was not dim.

“Ah, there’s my wife and her brother. Lady Morayne and I were waiting for you. We want to share this repast – this luscious collation, conceived and served by the master squirts of Montmartre – telegraphic address, Slop-pail.”

Lady Morayne let out a high-pitched laugh. Then she took Daphne’s arm.

“My dear,” she said, “no one will look at the pictures as long as you’re here. And what possessed you to visit this outcrop of minds diseased? Kindness of heart, for a monkey.”

“And you, Lady Morayne?”

“I’ve come because I like getting angry. Before I’m through, I shall probably foam at the mouth. Never mind – we’ll go round together. What’s the name of this insult, Berry?”

“Number Seven,” said Berry, opening his catalogue. “Here we are. Seven – Beyond the Mules.”

“Beyond the what?”

“Mules,” said Berry. “You know. Large, obstructive mammals. We used to have them in the war.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said the lady. “What’s the title mean?”

The inquiry was justified. The canvas was covered with dirty yellow paint, upon which a few unrecognizable objects were casting impossible shadows of great intensity. Between two square cocoanuts was lying a boomerang: what might have been the neck of a vulture was indicated by a pointing finger, such as one sometimes sees upon notice-boards: in the bottom left-hand corner was a crude representation of something which it would be charity to describe as garbage.

Berry fingered his chin.

“Beyond the Mules,” he murmured. “Well, I suppose we’ve outpaced them. We’re, so to speak, ahead. The mules will arrive later. That’s right. This is what the mules are going to find when they get here.”

“Well, I hope they like it better than I do,” shrilled Lady Morayne. “So much rotten balderdash – that’s what it is.”

“You must admit,” said Berry, “that the housework – I mean, the brush-work is very fine.”

“Brush-work!” spat Lady Morayne. “The impudent felon that did it can’t even paint. And what’s that mess in the corner?”

“That,” said Berry, “I associate with the mules.”

“But you said they hadn’t got here.”

“Nor they have,” said Berry. “They are going to have a surprise, aren’t they? I mean, talk about a home from home…”

In desperation, Daphne urged Lady Morayne towards a dark green canvas, covered with yellow blobs.

“And what,” said that lady, “is the name of this masterpiece?”

“Number Ten,” said Berry. “Sugar.”

“Did you say Sugar?”

“I did. That’s what it says here.”

“You know,” shouted Lady Morayne, “this is one long series of obscene libels. We all know what sugar looks like. What resemblance does anything there bear to that useful commodity?”

“The green,” said Berry, “is a lawn – a b-beautiful sward.

Upon this were playing some children, all of whom were sucking b-barley-sugar. Suddenly the school b-bell rings. Each child at once, er, parks its sugar against its return. They were still in school, when the artist—”

“Fudge,” said Lady Morayne. “The thing’s a filthy outrage, and you know it as well as I. What’s that over there?”

We advanced upon a large canvas, entitled Slender Thought.

Upon a fantastic sunset were superimposed three bottles, tied together with tape. Beneath this, a kiosk was being approached by a naked, human leg. The remains of a kaleidoscope, a backdoor, a pair of trousers and an enormous eyebrow completed the work of art.

“Slender Thought,” said Lady Morayne grimly. “And some damned fool is going to purchase that beastly drivel and hang it up on his wall. It’s only fit to floor a fowl-house with.”

“That would be dangerous,” said Berry. “The chickens would be born with hare-beaks. Now if it was called Roofing Felt, we should know where we were.”

“But that would be honest. You don’t expect honesty here. The whole thing is based upon fraud. Half a salmon on a pavement is honest – and usually very well done. But this is a ramp. This filth is produced by failures and foisted on fools. I’d rather have half a salmon on a flag-stone and hang it up m my hail than the whole of this gallery. There’s Adela Churt. Adela, isn’t this bestial?”

The Dowager Countess of Churt was understood to concur.

“It’s the war, my dear. Before the war it wouldn’t have been allowed. Well, Daphne, and why are you here? None of this will go with White Ladies.”

“We’re not purchasers, Lady Churt. We’ve come to keep abreast of the times.”

“There’s a winner here,” said Berry. “Oh, how d’you do, Lady Chart. Come and look at Dry Rot. I can’t think how they think of the names.”

A moment later we were confronting a canvas, some four feet square. Yellow paint had been daubed upon this in elliptical whirls. The only objects were a tent-peg, entire, and the head and shoulders of a hot-water bottle.

“You see,” said my brother-in-law, “it’s all disappeared. The artist has painted the absence of what was there. Most artists paint the presence. You see what I mean. If this fellow painted your portrait, he’d wait till you’d gone. Then he’d paint the void which your presence fills. Once you’ve got it, it’s very simple.”

“But where’s the dry rot?”

“Gone,” said Berry. “I’m sorry. If we’d been here two years ago… But now we’re too late. The woodwork has disappeared. All that remains is a tent-peg, too hard for the worms to digest.”

“And why the hot-water bottle?”

“That’s very subtle,” said Berry. “One of the best worms, whose name was Sobstuff, was a martyr to sciatica. Reluctant to lose his services, the other worms—”

“When I,” said Lady Morayne, “was of tender years, I used to play ‘Shops’. I used to take my doll’s tea service and fill the platters with berries and pebbles and pips. I remember it perfectly. And my mother used to come by and ask the price of the goods. That was a game – for a child of tender years. But this is no game. Adults are offering adults rubbish tricked out as art. Frames such as these have been set about old masters. Famous works have been hung in this gallery. And now these antics, which would offend a maniac – these contemptible scrawls which no pavement-artist would dare to perpetrate are displayed with honour and actually offered for sale. And not in vain. Because they are here, people are going to buy them. If they were offered horse-dung, they would refuse. But I’d rather have a shovel of horse-dung than ten of these.”

“Lady Morayne,” said a voice, “is among the prophets.”

Lady Morayne looked round and inclined her head.

“I should have been less downright, had I known that Your Excellency was there.”

“But I agree with you, Madame. But who are we, when the powers that be have determined that this is to be the vogue? Believe me, it is easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle than for a rich fool to withstand the vogue. All these, er, productions will be sold. Prices that Velasquez never dreamed of will be paid for these meaningless daubs. Museums will compete for the honour of hanging them on their walls.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “After all, sir—”

The Ambassador set a hand upon his shoulder.

“Before,” he said, “you are as old as I am now, you will see this putrid trash hanging under the same roof as Rembrandt, Watteau, Reynolds and the rest.”

Under cover of the discussion, Daphne and I made a belated escape.

 

Christie’s was not over-crowded. Though the furniture was fine, there was nothing sensational. Good prices were being paid.

“Lot two hundred and three. The picture-clock.”

The bidding began at five pounds, and I bought it for twenty-one.

I gave my name and address to the auctioneer’s clerk.

“ If I may, I’ll take it with me.”

“Certainly, sir.”

He nodded to one of the men, and the latter picked up my purchase and made his way to the stairs.

As I rejoined my sister—

“To be cleaned,” I said. “I don’t believe it’s been touched for fifty years. If we drive to Rodsham’s they can take the clock out, and—”

“Tomorrow,” said Daphne. “Let’s take it home and have a look at it first.”

“As you please, my darling.”

Ten minutes later, we were regarding our spoil.

The canvas was very dirty, but the painting had been well done. It was an English scene – the skirt of a little hamlet, whose decent inn was commanding a pleasant green: cows stood knee-deep in a horse-pond, with rising woods beyond: comfortable clouds rode in a pale-blue heaven, and, peering between the trees was the tower of the village church. And in the tower was a dial – a little silver dial the size of a two-shilling piece.

Behind the canvas was the clock-case; and, when you lifted the frame, the face of the clock left the picture to stay with the works, for a hole had been cut in the painting, to fit the dial.

The picture was not dated; nor was it signed. The clock was dated 1754. This had three gongs – two for the chimes, and one for the stroke of the hour. There was no key to wind it, but, when I let fall the hammers, the notes were sweet.

“What fun,” said Daphne. “You know, I love conceits – the conceits of yesterday. They are so elegant. Of course, they got awful later. Remember that clock that played hymns – at six and nine?”

“I do, indeed. Ormolu. A fearful thing. But it sold for ninety pounds.”

“I know. The vogue, again. I’d rather have ninety pence. Never mind. I love my present.” She took my face in her hands. “You’re very good to your sister. Not all men are.”

“Tout passe,” I quoted: “l’amitié reste.”

Daphne kissed my nose.

“I’d rather you’d said that, Boy, than anything else.”

When Berry returned, we exhibited our acquisition.

After a thorough inspection—

“Lovely,” he said. “Dear old Bughaven. They’ll fairly swarm in that casing. We’d better hang it in the garage.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne. “If there aren’t any now—”

“How d’you know there aren’t any now? They only come out by night. There they are in those cracks, listening to all we’re saying—”

“Rot,” said Daphne. “According to that, every old cupboard or picture—”

“No, no. It’s the chimes,” said Berry. “Bugs are mad about music. Look at the barrel-organ. Always crammed with bugs. Hence its name.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Daphne. “And why – hence its name?”

“Barrel-organ’s a corruption,” said Berry. “It was originally the bushel-organ. And bushel is itself a corruption of bug-shell. My sweet, it’s well known. All the great composers had to be regularly deloused. Why, when I was Beethoven’s fiancée—”

“Later, darling,” said Daphne. “The Willoughbys specially asked us not to be late.”

“What, Madge’s birthday? Tonight? Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “I felt like death today until after lunch.”

“Only three more days,” said I.

“Thank God for that,” said Berry. “What do we do it for?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” I said. “I suppose because it’s the vogue.”

“Hush,” said Berry. He stooped, to set an ear to the picture-clock. “‘Down in the crevice something jeered.’”

 

After four hours’ sleep the next morning, I found a letter from Christie’s lying beside my plate.

 

July, 1924.

Sir,

When yesterday’s sale was over, we were approached by a Mr Coker Falk, at present of 210 Mortimer Street, regarding the picture-clock, for which we enclose our account. This gentleman had intended to bid for this lot, but only reached our rooms after it had been sold. He desired us to give him your name and address. This, according to our practice, we declined to do; but he was so insistent that we ventured to undertake to give you his name and address, so that you could communicate with him, should you feel so disposed.

 

We are, Sir,

Your obedient servants…

 

I did not feel so disposed – and enclosed a note with my cheque to that effect. Daphne liked her present, and no consideration should make me take it away. Indeed, despite Berry’s misgivings, she had already decided where it should hang – outside her room at White Ladies, so that its chimes could be shared with the rest of the floor.

Later, I drove to Rodsham’s and had the clock taken out. There they said at once that the timepiece was French. “And a very nice piece of work, sir. When once it’s cleaned, you’ll find it’ll go very well.” I arranged to let them know when the picture was hung: then they would send down a man to put back the clock.

Then I drove to the picture-liner’s, and left the canvas there. This was to be sent to White Ladies in ten days’ time.

From there I walked to the Club, to be joined by Berry about a quarter-past twelve.

“Give me a drink,” he said. “A triple brandy, or something. I’ve just left a friend of yours.”

“Has he proved so exhausting?” said I.

“Exhausting?” said Berry. “He’s corrosive. He eats you away.” Here a waiter appeared. “Two dry martinis, Latham, and make them strong.”

“A friend of mine?” said I.

“That’s right,” said Berry. “A Mr Coker Falk. He’s after Bughaven.”

“Good God,” said I. “But how—”

“I’ve no idea,” said Berry. “And I can’t face any questions. I’m not myself. I can make a dying deposition, and that is all. I tell you, the man’s vitriolic. Twenty minutes with him, and your brain is scarred.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“It may have been more,” said Berry. “And I wasn’t fit to go out, except in an ambulance.”

Here the cocktails arrived.

As I laid the money down—

“Have one of these,” I said.

“I’m going to have both,” said Berry. “When I think—”

“All right. And another one, Latham. And now let’s have it, brother. I want to know.”

Berry emptied one glass and lighted a cigarette.

“About half-past eleven,” he said, “I left the house. I can’t remember where I was going – that’s Coker’s fault. Oh, I know. I was going to have my hair cut. Damn it, I had an appointment. That’s what Coker does – he stuns your brain. Well, I left the house and walked straight into his arms. Of course he thought I was you, and was off like a rogue. He began with a poor imitation of Deborah’s song. He, Coker Falk, had circumvented Christie’s, who, poor fish, had refused to give him your address. That, be said, was always the way. America was the locomotive, and England was the trucks: and when the trucks withstood the locomotive, they found themselves pushed around. Look at the war. England and France had tried to beat Germany for four years, and the United States had beaten her in four months. That was because America got down to things. He then told me what he would do to Christie’s, if he was the Managing Director. He spoke of Bargain Basements and Ladies’ Rooms. Finally he seized the lapel of this excellent coat and said he was going to have the picture-clock. He said he’d never wanted anything so much in all his life, and when Coker Falk felt that way, the angels watched their step. There he paused for breath: so I said, that while I fully appreciated his outlook, unless both his god-parents were of German extraction, the acquisition of British nationality was a matter of some difficulty. I added that trout-streams were, however, available at a price and that if he made a noise like a lipstick outside the back door of Lambeth Palace, His Grace would serve him after closing time and before the mast. Before he had recovered from this counter-attack, I urged him to release my coat, as it had been left me by a hot-drop forger who had died of bubonic plague. I followed this request with an invitation – which he immediately accepted – to lunch with me today at the old Bailey at one o’clock. He certainly let go my lapel, but when I sought to be gone, he fell into step beside me and started again. He said I could have Lambeth Palace and the trout-streams. All he wanted of me was the picture-clock. He said it was ‘just poitry’ – the cutest operational gadget he’d ever seen. He was going to take it to Chunkit – that’s his home town – and hang it right up in his parlour and then ask the folks to step in. He said the noise they’d make would be heard in Dayton and that, when it said its piece, they’d just pass out. I said that was fine. Then I pointed out that I hadn’t been near Christie’s for a fortnight and had never purchased or possessed such a thing as a picture-clock. This statement appeared to afford him infinite mirth, for he made a noise like a hooter, slammed me upon the back, pitched a penny into the gutter and then spat upon it with remarkable accuracy. That, he said, was for my bluff. When he did that at Chunkit, folks put the storm-shutters up. And then he was really off. He’d got to have that clock. He’d write me a cheque on the Farmer’s Glory Bank that’d make what I’d paid Christie’s look like a tag in a five-cent bargain-sale. Reminiscence, prophecy and metaphor foamed from his lips. He wouldn’t let me speak and he wouldn’t let me go, and, when I stopped a taxi, he followed me in. I don’t wonder he gets what he wants. If the clock had been mine, he’d have had it – and that’s the truth. You’ve got to stop him somehow, or you’ll go raving mad.

“When he heard me say, ‘Drive to Christie’s,’ he quietened down. You see, he thought he was home. He was fairly hugging himself, as he followed me up the steps. I asked to see —. When he came, I asked him if he had been selling yesterday afternoon. He said yes. ‘Then will you tell this gentleman whether or no it was I that purchased a picture-clock.’ ‘It wasn’t you,’ says —. ‘In fact, I don’t think you were there.’ ‘And you didn’t bid for me?’ ‘Certainly not.’ I turned to Coker. ‘Is that good enough?’ I said. He looked from — to me and savaged his thumb. ‘You’re B Pleydell,’ he said, ‘of thirty-eight Cholmondeley Street.’ I nodded. ‘And you didn’t buy that clock?’ ‘I’ve been telling you so,’ I said, ‘for half an hour.’ ‘Then there’s dirty work somewhere,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to begin again.’ With that, he started on —, and I slipped down the stairs and drove to the Stores. I tell you, I was taking no chances. When I was sure I’d lost him, I left by another door and took a taxi here. And now what?”

“Don’t ask me,” said I. “If you can’t beat him, I can’t.”

“If he comes back,” said Berry, “you’ll have to hand Bughaven over. And if you take my advice, you’ll do it at once.”

I’m damned if I will,” said I. “Besides, it’s broken up. The clock and the picture are parted – they’re being severally cleaned.”

“That won’t stop Coker,” said Berry. “If you gave it to the British Museum, he’d have it out.”

“Well, we go out of Town on Friday.”

“I know. And the moment he sees White Ladies, he’ll want that, too.”

 

We had been at White Ladies a week, and I was sitting at Riding Hood, under some limes, waiting to pick up Berry, who was upon the Bench. After another five minutes, I left the car and made my way quietly into the little court.

Berry was in the Chair, and a Chinaman stood in the dock.

“You say you’re a seaman?” said Berry.

The prisoner inclined his head.

“How do you come to be here?”

“I wished for the country, sir, before I signed on again.”

“Do you mean to return to China?”

“Yes, sir. I beg that you will beat me and let me go.”

Berry frowned.

“Because you’re a stranger,” he said, “the charge has been reduced to one of common assault. Had you been English, you would have been sent for trial on a much more serious charge. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To draw a knife on a man is a very serious thing.”

“I lose my temper, because he has insulted the bold.”

“An insult is no excuse for trying to take his life. But you are a stranger and a seaman. If you were a landsman and English, we should send you to prison for six months.”

“I am very sorry, sir.”

“As it is, we shall only send you to prison for six weeks, with hard labour.”

The Chinaman clung to the dock.

“Beat me, my lord, beat me – and let me go.”

“I have no power to have you beaten.”

“But prison – no.”

“I’m sorry,” said Berry. “But you have done something which we have not the right to pass. We’re being very lenient. When you come out, the police will help you to get a ship.”

The man bowed his head. As the jailer touched his arm, he let out a terrible cry.

“The bold, the bold!”

Berry looked round.

“What does he mean?” he demanded. “Who are the bold?”

An Inspector of Police stood up.

“I think it’s his puppy, sir. We’ve got it outside.”

Berry looked at the prisoner.

“Is The Bold your dog?”

The Chinaman bowed his head.

“I am his servant,” he said. “The blood is royal.”

There was a little silence, while Berry fingered his chin.

Then—

“I begin to see daylight,” he said. “Bring the dog in.”

One minute later, the most perfect Pekingese puppy I ever saw stood upon the solicitors’ table, looking imperiously round. He was very small, because he was very young; but a full-grown mastiff had not his dignity. Strange as were his surroundings, he knew no fear. His little head was up, and his tiny tail was lying along his spine. His hair was not in – he was furry. He looked like something a woman might have worn at her throat. Richer, I think, than sable: but rather more grey.

“Let him go to him,” said Berry.

The prisoner left the dock and stepped to the puppy’s side. Then he spoke to him in Chinese, as though indeed he were his equerry.

When he had done, the puppy surveyed him proudly and put out a tiny paw. The other bowed his head and it touched his brow with its tongue. But the tail never moved.

“Listen,” said Berry. “Your trouble is that you don’t want to leave The Bold?”

The Chinaman looked at him and inclined his head.

“While you are in prison,” said Berry, “he shall be lodged in my house. He shall be fed and cared for in every way. When you come out, he will be ready and waiting to sail to China with you. Tell him what I have said in your own tongue.”

The prisoner addressed the puppy – rather as his adviser addresses a King.

When he had done, he stood back.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said quietly. “Now I will go.”

As the door closed behind him, Berry nodded to me and got to his feet. As he left the Bench, I moved to the table and picked the puppy up.

“Has he eaten?” I asked the Inspector.

“Not a bite, sir. He won’t take nothing from us. He’s a proud little dog – stares you down, you know. An’ clean as clean. An’ he can’t be more than two months. He’s had a little water.”

“He’s no ordinary dog,” said I. “If a Chinaman says he’s royal, he probably is.”

“What, a dog o’ royal blood, sir?”

“That’s right. It’s a terribly ancient breed.”

“Soun’s like a fairy-tale, sir.”

“So it does,” said I. “But I think it’s probably fact.”

 

As we settled ourselves in the car—

“What else could I do?” said Berry. “He damned near did wilful murder for love of this scrap. Saw red, of course. But you can’t pass things like that.”

“I think,” said I, “he’s extremely fortunate.”

“I don’t know about that. You see, British Justice is very rightly renowned. And when we have an alien before us, I always bear that in mind. If he’s a swine, he gets more than an Englishman – why should he come over here to do his dirt? But if he’s a decent bloke, he receives consideration, so that when he goes back to his country, he’ll always speak well of us. I admit it’s not in the Manual, but I think it’s common sense. And what do we feed him on? Goat’s flesh, seethed in sour milk, or rotten fish? They eat such filth in China that what the scraps can be like, I tremble to think.”

“Bread and milk,” said I. “And a little raw meat. He wants building up. And mind what you say of his country. He’s most intelligent.”

Berry regarded the puppy, snug in the crook of his arm.

“Daphne,” he said, “will never let him out of her sight. You must be a good dog, The Bold, and we’ll be good dogs to you. A very fine lady is going to be your friend. One of your rank, you know. But you mustn’t look down on us, for we have our points. And mind you’re civil to the servants.” He turned to me. “You might have a word with Nobby. I know he’ll be full of goodwill, but he’s rather impetuous. I mean, this’ll be a new one on him.”

“I’ll see to that,” said I. “He’ll be all right, as soon as he knows the facts.”

“Well, do be ready,” said Berry. “When you’ve been away for ten minutes, he has a bewitching habit of leaping into the car and of climbing all over my face in order to get at yours. If he does that today, and uses The Bold as a foothold…”

He need have had no concern.

As the Rolls stole up the drive, I saw at a glance that my Sealyham was deeply engaged.

He was standing square on the gravel, with his tail well over his back and his eyes on the door of a green all-weather coupé, berthed by the side of the lawn. His demeanour was eloquent.

Framed in the coupé’s window were the head and shoulders of a man I had never seen. He was wearing a circular hat and his face was red. But I knew who it was before Berry spoke his name.

“And this,” said the latter, “is where I leave the tram. Nobby’s got him where he belongs. You can make all things clear and then take your leave. He’ll have to go – or spend the night in the drive.”

I stopped, and he left the Rolls. Then I drove slowly on, until I was abreast of the captive, till then unaware that he was no longer alone.

“Get this darned dog away,” he yelped. “I wanner get out.”

Nobby looked at me, and my lips framed the words ‘Good dog.’ Thus reassured, he lowered his chin to his toes and let out a bark.

“Mr Falk,” I said, “you’re only wasting your time.”

“Get that dog away, and I guess I’ll change your outlook. Before I’m through, sonny, you’re going to be born again. I told your senior he couldn’t faze Coker Falk. I won’t say he hasn’t edged me, because he has. And I don’t think much of his Club. All cops and corner bums, as far as I saw. But you can’t side-track a land-slide. An’ when Coker Falk says ‘Mine’, wise guys throw in their hands. What d’you want for the honey, Mister? Don’t be afraid.”

“Look here,” said I. “I don’t know how long you’re prepared to stay in that car, but my dog is prepared to watch it until it leaves. Make it forty-eight hours if you like – it won’t faze him.”

“See here. You get him away.”

I shook my head.

“He’s serving my turn,” I said. “This interview is not of my seeking and I have no time to spare. Please get this once for all – the picture-clock is not here and is not for sale.”

“See here, Junior, when Coker Falk wants what’s his, it’s quicker to have a war than to stand him down. If your cops knew their job, they wouldn’ o’ held me at Chiswick an’ let you take that gadget out of my jaws. An’ when a guy does that, as soon as he sees his error, he puts it back. That’s Chunkit’s way, Buddy, but maybe Chunkit’s ahead. So Coker Falk’s buying you out. You move the hound, an’ I’ll—”

“By pursuing the matter,” said I, “you’re throwing away a chance which will never occur again.”

“How’s that?”

“Tomorrow evening an exhibition will close, and its famous works of art will be dispersed. They are for sale – at a price. The price may be more than you are prepared to pay—”

“See here, Junior, if Coker Falk—”

“—but if they don’t shake Chunkit up, then nothing will. More. They’re the latest thing. I was there with two ladies of title, a week ago: and they had seen nothing like them – they said so, in so many words. And one has a room full of van Dycks; so she ought to know.”

“Name, please,” said Mr Falk, notebook in hand.

“Adela, Countess of Churt.”

The name went down.

“There’s a glorious study there, Beyond the Mules. Or if that’s sold, there’s another, called Slender Thought. They’re more than I can afford, but—”

“What’s the address?”

I gave the gallery’s name and got out of the Rolls.

“Slender Thought and Beyond the Mules,” repeated Mr Falk. He put his note-book away. “Now let me out of this car.”

I shook my head.

“That’s my last word, Mr Falk. I’ve given you the low-down on those pictures. I’ve told you what Lady Churt thinks. If Chunkit knows better than she does, then let them go. But don’t blame me if, before we’re very much older, you see Beyond the Mules on some well-known gallery’s walls.”

With that, I made much of Nobby and entered the house, while Mr Falk, in a foaming diatribe, compared British hospitality unfavourably with that of the United States.

Five minutes later, I heard the coupé leave…

As I appeared upon the terrace, my sister sat back on her heels.

“I suppose it’s real,” she said. “I mean, when we wake tomorrow it won’t be gone.”

The Bold was standing still at the head of the terrace steps, surveying his present dominion with the dignity of a lion. He resembled a little image that stands on a mantelpiece.

I bent my head to Nobby, under my arm.

“There he is,” I whispered. “You see, he’s very small, and, although he covers it up, I think he must feel very strange. So be gentle with him, old fellow.”

Nobby put up his muzzle and licked my face.

The Bold descended the steps, as best he could. Happily, they were shallow; but I am inclined to think that they were the first he had used. But they had to be traversed, if he was to reach the grass – and The Bold knew how to behave.

I let him prove the lawn. Then I put Nobby down…

The meeting was well timed, for The Bold had just found that the lawn was uncomfortably big. After all, he was very tiny, and the sward must have seemed immense. Be that as it may, for the first time his tail went down, and he stood, a forlorn little figure, awed by his giant surroundings and plainly not at all sure of the way he had come. And then he turned to see Nobby, two paces away.

In a flash his tail was up and he faced the Sealyham squarely, as though he knew no fear. Nobby moved his tail and lay down – and The Bold came stumbling towards him and lay down, too.

So they played upon the lawn together, Nobby suffering him, and The Bold no longer a prince, but an urchin boy.

But when, later on, we went in to dress for dinner, Nobby stood still and The Bold stepped in before him, chin in air.

Indeed, as long as he was with us, he always took pride of place – and Nobby accepted this and always gave him the wall. He would sway his tail for the servants, but never for us. But with us he would be familiar; with us he would play and bicker; from us he would take his orders – often enough with a high and mighty air; and Daphne was his goddess – for her he would turn on his back and wave his paws in the air. And when she picked him up, he would sob with content. After all, he was very tiny and very young.

As we took our seats at table—

“And now,” said my sister, “about this awful man. What have you done with him?”

“He’s gone for the moment,” said I. “But I’m not sure he won’t come back.”

“Of course he’ll come back,” said Berry. “He’s Coker Falk. What’s yours is his, and he wants what he wants when he wants it – and that’s right now. Mind you get that, Sugar, and get it good. When Coker Falk says ‘See here’, wise guys go into the wash-room and lock the door.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” said Daphne.

“That’s nothing at all,” said Berry. “That’s Tallis’ Responses, compared with Coker Falk. After five minutes with him, your nerves are flayed.”

“Go on, Boy,” said my sister. “How did you drive him away?”

“I put him on to those very beautiful pictures we saw ten days ago. I suggested that, if he really wanted to blind Chunkit – for that, I assume, is the idea – he couldn’t do better than show it Beyond The Mules. I took Lady Churt’s name in vain, and that made him think.”

“If he comes back,” said Berry, “you’ll have to give him the clock. We can’t go on like this. It’s bad for my heart.”

“Nonsense,” said Daphne. “Just because—”

“My sweet,” said Berry. “You’ve had no communion with Coker. Neither has Boy really, because today he was treed. But once let him get his hooks in, and after a little while you’ll give him what ever he asks. The tension he induces is so frightful, that you simply have to relieve it at any cost. How he’s escaped mutilation, I can’t conceive: if he’s persona grata at Chunkit, I tremble to think what life in that town can be like.”

“If I have to sock him,” said I, “he won’t have the picture-clock. But if Nobby could tree him, I don’t think he’d wait for that. After all, he may not return. I’ve thrown him quite a good fly. And I fear he considers us sticky. He didn’t care for the Central Criminal Court, and he felt very strongly that he should have been asked to stay.”

“What here?” said Berry. “Oh, go on.”

“He’d brought his suitcase. He said so, before he went. I sat in the hall and listened. They’re a funny lot at Chunkit. It seems that if I went there, to force somebody’s hand, I should be loaded with gifts and fêted for several months.”

“Or robbed and murdered,” said Berry. “Don’t you go. Never mind. Let’s hope and pray that Beyond the Mules is sold. That’ll be enough for Coker. Lunch at Bell Hammer tomorrow? Or am I wrong?”

“No, that’s right,” said Daphne. “But I forgot to tell you – Sir Andrew won’t be there. He can’t leave Town until Tuesday. So, as he wants to see you, he’ll lunch here on his way down.”

Sir Andrew Plague, KC, was a notable man. He was also a survival. Few brains could compare with his: his temper was that of a bull: his personality was devastating. Rough as he was with them, his servants worshipped him. Since his marriage with Lady Touchstone, some ten months back, he had become less fiery; but, once he was roused, Sir Andrew knew no law. We liked him well and held him in great respect – and I like to think he liked us, for there were, in fact, few houses to which he would go. My brother-in-law and he were co-Trustees.

“Good,” said Berry. “Er, good. Has the household been warned?”

“It will be. And he’s sure to bring Spigot with him.”

Let me put it like this. When Sir Andrew went visiting, his valet was quite invaluable – not so much to Sir Andrew as to his host.

“I think, perhaps,” added Daphne, “that just while he’s here, The Bold should be out of sight.”

“I entirely agree,” said Berry. “Two such majestic personalities would almost certainly clash. I mean, when Sir Andrew’s mellow, he looks at you as if you were dirt, and The Bold’s imperious stare would send the blood to his head. By the way, where’s The Bold to sleep?”

“Well, I thought in Boy’s room.”

“Not on your life,” said I.

“But, darling, he won’t feel lonely if Nobby’s there.”

“But—”

“What could be better?” said Berry, unctuously. “And if he wants to go out about half-past three – well, then he can go, can’t he?”

“This is monstrous,” said I. “You took him on. I heard you promise that Chink—”

“I was very careful,” said Berry, “to use the passive voice. ‘The dog,’ I said, ‘will be cared for.’ Besides, at three a.m. life’s at its lowest ebb. If I were aroused about then, it might be the end. And what if it’s raining? Am I eating Arthur’s Seat? It’s really extraordinarily good.”

“Arthur’s Seat?” screamed Daphne.

“I mean, Dover Sole,” said Berry. “When I was Judge Jeffreys, I used to buy my gooseberries at Turnham Green. Some years later, when I was on the Bloody Assize, the apprentice that gave me short measure gave evidence for the defence. And there you are. As I said to him before sentence, be sure your sin will find you out. It upset me terribly.”

 

There were now many cars abroad, but the roads which we used the next morning were little known, and for much of the way we had no company. With one consent, we drove slowly, for the country was looking its best, and, since it had rained in the night, the air was as sweet as the prospects on every side. The timber was especially lovely. There was a bulwark of woodland, thick and close as tapestry laid upon the arm of a chair: yet, when we stole beside it and could see its warp and its woof, a glancing, diaphanous mansion, lodging zephyr and sunbeam and fit for the pretty progress of Shakespeare’s maids. And here, at a corner, was standing a wayside oak – the very embodiment of England, slow, resolute, majestic, unearthly strong: one mighty branch hung over the way itself, offering shade and shelter and printing upon the road its splendid effigy. For those that have ears to hear, such trees give tongue. Then there were hedgerow elms – jacketed men-at-arms, that took up their escort duty four hundred years ago. Four magnificent chestnuts were squiring a Norman tower, and a quarter of a mile farther on two copper beeches, new burnished, filled the eye. So the pageant went on, with lime and ash and walnut, still taking their ancient order, while a watch of firs upon a hilltop still did its sober duty by many a mile.

So we came to Bell Hammer, just as the stable-clock was telling the time. A quarter to one.

As we left the car, Valerie Lyveden came running across the lawn.

“My very dears, how are you? Anthony’s changing – he only got back from his village ten minutes ago. And how is everything?”

“If you’re thinking of Town,” said Berry, “it’s now one large, steep place – with the Gadarene swine rushing down it, by day and night. We’ve pulled out at last, but, once you’re going, it’s terribly hard to stop. But we’ve come to hear news – not give it.”

“First tell me – how’s White Ladies?”

“Looking up,” said Daphne. “I’ve got the laundry going, I’m thankful to say. The money it’s going to save us. Half our stuff has been ruined by sending it out.”

“Laundry!” cried Valerie Lyveden. “I can’t even staff the house.”

“Yes, but the future’s assured. When Anthony really gets going, you’ll have a waiting list.”

Two things had happened to Lyveden within the year: he had inherited a very great fortune and had married a very rich girl. Young and able and active, he could not fold his hands; but even while he was wondering what he could find to do, the little village of Pouncet, lying at the gates of Bell Hammer, had come to be sold. And many acres with it. Lyveden had bought them forthwith, and now was to use his fortune to make of Pouncet an Auburn of 1924.

Here the new landlord appeared…

“But this is absurd,” said Berry. “He can’t go about like that. He must wear a large double-Albert and tails and a square felt hat. He must carry a stick with a knob, which he holds to his chin, suck his teeth before speaking and—”

“Be quiet,” said Daphne. “Anthony, where are the plans?”

“On the billiard-table – all ready. When you’ve digested them, I’ll take you down to the borough and see what you think.”

“What about the pub?” said Berry.

“I’ve had a find there,” said Lyveden. “They’re pulling one down at Bristol, which is over two hundred years old. I’ve got the bar and the shelves, two beautiful old bow-windows, full of original panes, the floor and a lovely fireplace and four good doors.”

“You don’t mean to say you let the cellars go?”

“But I’ve got a peach of a sign-board: The Godly Shipman – that’s a new one on me. Another pub’s going at Portsmouth, and I’ve got the settles from that.”

“And the village hall?” said Daphne.

“I’m copying one from Oxford – of course, on a tiny scale: that’ll make one side of a quad. Almshouses on the others, with a porter’s lodge and a gate. But that’s all to come. Water and light and drainage come before everything else. Of the present habitations, five out of six are outwardly very nice: but most are far too small: so, as the leases fall in, I shall just knock two into one.”

“You can do what you like?” said I.

“Pretty well, I think. Sir Andrew’s behind me there. I can make certain rules. No char-à-bancs, for instance. No tea-rooms. I will not have a resort.”

“It’s fascinating,” said Daphne.

“Well, I want it to be Pouncet’s show. They’re a very decent lot, and it is such a pretty spot that I hate the idea of their drifting into the towns.”

“Almshouses,” said Berry. “Along three sides of a square. Will you want as many as that?”

“Touché,” cried Valerie. “That’s a concession to architecture.”

“Then devote one side to your staff. Do as they do in France, and let some live out.”

“What a tidal brainwave,” said Valerie, clapping her hands. “Next door to the hall, and all. And when they grow old in our service, they’ve only to cross the floor.”

Here Lady Plague arrived.

“I insist upon knowing,” she said. “Have you told them about the baths?”

“Not yet,” said Anthony.

“Discourse,” said Berry. “Discourse.”

“Well, it’s silly to put in bathrooms, so I’m having a bathhouse built. That’s going under the hall. Hot water every, evening from six to nine: hot water every morning for washing clothes. I don’t know whether it’ll work.”

“What could be better?” said Berry. “‘The flesh at night, the vest and drawers by day.’”

“Really!” said Daphne.

“Gluckstein,” said Berry. “I mean, Goldsmith. Out of The Converted Village. I remember it perfectly. ‘And those who came to wash remained to bathe.’”

“Berry,” said Lady Plague, “I give you best. The Converted Village alone is worth a weekend. And you’re only going to have lunch.”

“Come and name our new cocktail,” said Valerie, “and you shall stay for a month.”

As we followed her and my sister into the house—

“You know,” said Lady Plague, “it’s like sawbones.”

“Sawbones?” said I.

“Yes. That silly game that everyone was playing before the war. There were family quarrels about it. When someone had done two-thirds of Rembrandt’s Night Watch—”

“You mean, jigsaws,” said I.

“Do I? Never mind. They used to give them to the sick – a most extraordinary procedure. If I was ill, the last thing I should want to do would be to reconstruct Rembrandt’s Night Watch. But as we’re all well and strong we’ve fallen for this new game. Andrew’s quite silly about it. The billiard-room is our wash-pot. The table’s been covered with cork, and the cork with plans. And we have a board for ‘Ideas’. What are you thinking, Boy?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Berry and Anthony Lyveden were not to be seen.

“Strictly between you and me, is Pouncet going to like it?”

“Of course not,” said Lady Plague. “Pouncet is going to loathe it with all its might. It’ll loathe the pub and the hall and, except to pinch the soap, it won’t go near the baths. The drainage it regards as an insult – that we know. And, to mark its disapproval, half the village will leave – and cut off its rotten nose to spite its rotten face. But Anthony’s ready for that. Their homes will be swept and garnished, and then will be possessed by disabled ex-service men. That’s what’s at the back of his mind. He’s got a young architect who’s lost a leg in the war, and he’s ear-marked a sergeant-major to run the pub.”

I sighed.

“It’s a great thing,” said I, “to be a monarch. If we owned Bilberry…”

“What then?”

“You must ask Berry,” I said. “The sorry tale is his.”

The cocktail was very good. Berry named it Dry Auburn – which I thought was better still.

Appealed to at lunch, he related our tale of woe.

“This,” he said, “is a Saturday afternoon. By rights, we should be playing cricket – and putting Gamecock or Dovetail where they belong. That we are not is due to our Mr Doogle, an unattractive swine, for whom humanity falls into two classes only – blood-suckers and wage-slaves. Mr Doogle appeared in the village some eighteen months ago. That he came in haste and by stealth cannot, I think, be denied, and Doogle” – he spelt it – “seems to me a queer name. The less sympathetic suggest that his surreptitious arrival was due to a desire to avoid bloodshed and that, had he remained in the North, more than one of his veins would most certainly have been opened in the crudest possible way. To this view, I incline, for he has been heard to boast that, while his conscience prevented him from serving his King in the field, such was his personal energy in fomenting strikes that, during the critical years, he cost his country more than a million working hours. Now our Mr Doogle is cunning – I’ll give him that. Of White Ladies he speaks no ill. Instead, he continually proclaims how fortunate – nay, blest the village is in such a neighbour. With a loud voice, he applauds our condescension in worshipping in the same Church, in patronizing the same shops, in joining in the same games as ‘the common man’. He begs the village to consider how much it costs us so to demean ourselves. Finally, when I came out of Church after reading the lessons, he led the cheers. There were, of course, no cheers to lead. Well, I give the brute best. Our Mr Doogle has done his job – the job he is paid to do, for he has money to spend, but he does no work. Every gesture we make is now suspect. The old fellows love us still: but the younger – see through us. Class hatred has come to stay.”

A painful silence succeeded Berry’s words.

Then—

“I’m not surprised,” said Valerie. “White Ladies was bound to stand high on the Communists’ danger-list.”

“And what of their agent?” Lady Plague’s eyes were afire. “Better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck. My God, what fools people are!”

“What,” said Anthony Lyveden, “is Doogle like?”

“Undersized,” said Berry. “A rat of a man. Thin, reddish hair, and protruding eyes. Age about forty. Can you place him?”

“I think I can. I believe his true name is Elgood – that would be Doogle reversed.”

“Well done, indeed,” cried Daphne – and spoke for us all.

“Go on,” said Berry. “Go on.”

“Well an agitator called Elgood left Durham early last year. On the eve of an inquest on a woman who took her life. He’d been blackmailing her. Some search was made for him, but no charge could be made and so he wasn’t pursued. The coroner was – very outspoken. I happen to know these things, because the woman was the wife of a sergeant-major I know. He was once my first servant, and I hope he’s coming to Pouncet to run the pub. As a matter of fact, he’s coming to Bell Hammer next week. Warren, his name is – one of the best of men. And I’ve little doubt that he’d like a word with Elgood – or, as he once described him, ‘that little red rat’.”

“He can have it,” said Berry, “for certain on Saturday night. From what Fitch, our chauffeur says, that’s guest night at The Rose. Doogle’s guest night, I mean. He dilutes his doctrines with whiskey. After two or three rounds, they turn into obvious truths.”

Anthony fingered his chin.

“You mustn’t be on in this act, and neither must I. I’ll have a word with Warren, and you have a word with Fitch. And Warren shall report to Fitch at nine on Saturday night. I think it must be the man.”

“It must be,” said everyone.

“If it is,” said Lyveden, “when he’s discharged from hospital, I feel that he will cross Bilberry off his map.”

“Let’s hope he tries Pouncet,” said Berry. “By that time Warren will certainly be installed: and when Doogle limps into The Godly Shipman, in search of a double Scotch – well, he’ll feel the world’s against him, won’t he? And now to return to our moutons (very low French). I understand Pouncet is peevish – doesn’t want to be washed and brushed. If you want to disperse her dudgeon, set up an elegant conduit in the midst of your quad. This must have two pipes – one connected to the main water, and one to the pub. And then on high days and holidays, such as the anniversary of the discovery of smallpox, the fountain can run with beer.”

 

Neither Berry nor Daphne nor I will ever forget the highly fantastic trick which Fortune played before us upon the next day but two.

For Sir Andrew Plague’s visit, arrangements had been carefully made. The Bold had been confined to the housekeeper’s room – a sentence for which he had summoned his most indignant stare. Nobby had been bathed and cautioned. A simple lunch had been ordered – Sir Andrew liked plain food. His appetite being healthy, a cold steak-and-kidney pie – a delicacy to which he was partial – was in reserve. And the household was standing by at a quarter-past twelve.

Since I was upon the lawn, but the others were in the house, I alone of us three saw the outrage take place.

At five and twenty to one Sir Andrew’s car had turned in at our entrance-gates, when a van turned in behind it and then, by the use of its hooter, demanded way. Sir Andrew’s chauffeur naturally took no notice, for, apart from anything else, the drive was very ancient and, therefore, none too wide. Upon this, with his hooter screaming, the driver of the van deliberately forced his way by, compelling Sir Andrew’s chauffeur to take his car on to the turf and over the roots of a tree.

As Berry and Daphne appeared, the van was pulled up all standing before the door, and Coker Falk flung out and ran to its back. As he and his accomplice were lifting out a large picture, the car came to rest, alongside, but slightly in rear.

Sir Andrew was half out of his window, stick in hand.

“You murdering blackguards,” he roared. “You bloody-minded felons. Lemme out of this car, Spigot. I’ll show them what murder means. I’ll teach them to cram their betters on private roads.”

It was a fearful business.

Sir Andrew was enormously fat and a giant of a man. His face was normally red, but now it was blue. He had leaned so far out of the window, that now, when he sought to do so, he could not retire: indeed, had the door been opened, he must, I think, have gone with it, and Spigot wisely refrained from doing as he was bid.

Coker Falk disregarded his yells, addressing Berry and Daphne, as though the stage was his.

“Well, folks, I guess you’ll allow Coker Falk can do his stuff. Don’t you notice this boyo: he’s only sore ’cause I pushed him. When Coker Falk is moving, wise guys get under the seat. See here, Charming, you couldn’t afford these cunning compositions – Junior told me so: an’ so I’ve brought them along, to hang in the old ancestral in place of the picture-clock.” He ripped its wrapping away, to expose Beyond the Mules. “You’ve got to stand back for this one.” Here he stepped back – within range. “But once—”

Sir Andrew’s stick fell upon his shoulder – and shivered with the force of the blow. With a howl of pain, Coker swung round, to meet a blast of invective that took his breath away.

“And that’s nothing,” yelled Sir Andrew. “Wait till I’m out. That’s not even an earnest of what you’re going to get. I’ll tear your head from your body. I’ll—”

“See here, gargoyle,” shrilled Coker, “you can’t get funny like this with Coker Falk. I’m an American citizen, an’—”

Sir Andrew laughed – a laugh of such hideous menace as made the blood run cold.

“So was Crippen,” he blared: “but he died over here. My God, lemme out of this car. You all of you heard him say ‘gargoyle’. I’ll kill him for that. And that filthy offal there shall serve as his winding-sheet.”

“See here, ogre, if you think you can bluff Coker Falk—”

“Bluff?” screeched Sir Andrew. “Bluff? Goats and monkeys, I’ll show him. I’ll…”

Coker had not stopped talking: Sir Andrew’s disapproval was superimposed upon his.

“—get tougher, bogey, I guess I’ll have to show you the ugly way. If you’d been chased when you were a little rosebud…”

“—an alien scourge. And then you can have his vile body and cast it into the draught.”

Here, with a madman’s effort, the ravening knight fought his shoulders out of the window and into the car. And then the door was open, and he was down in the drive.

As he launched himself at Coker, the latter started back and, catching his heel in its wrapping, fell into Beyond the Mules. The canvas, of course, gave way, and Coker went through the frame, which his trembling accomplice continued to hold upright.

This brought Sir Andrew up short, and Spigot seized the occasion and caught his arm.

“Steady, Sir Andrew. The man’s not worth your attention.”

His master turned upon Spigot and shook him off.

“Stand back,” he roared. “I’m going to abate a nuisance – a filthy, verminous nuisance, that wears the shape of a man.”

My sister was by his side.

“Sir Andrew,” she said, “my husband has sent for the servants and…”

But Berry and I were not waiting. Between us, we picked up Coker and flung him into the van. Then I seized Beyond the Mules and pitched that in upon him, and Berry slammed the doors.

Then he addressed the accomplice.

“Get into the cab and drive off. And tell Mr Coker Falk that, if he appears again, I shall have him thrown into a cellar and send for the police. He’s molested me and insulted one of my guests. And he will return at his peril – and so will you.”

As the fellow started his engine, Coker was thrashing the panel behind the driver’s seat.

“Here, you,” he howled, “you’re taking your orders from me. You leave this truck where it is and let me out. That fat thug’s lammed my shoulder and spoiled a museum piece. I’ll say I’m sore. An’ when Coker Falk gets sore, wise guys…”

Amid the storming of gears, the rest of the adage was lost.

Berry turned to the gardeners who had come up at a run.

“See that van out, and close the entrance-gates.”

Daphne met us, as we re-entered the house.

“Cocktails on the terrace,” she said. “I’m going to drink two. Sir Andrew will have his upstairs. Spigot says he’ll be quite all right in a quarter of an hour.”

“I shan’t,” said Berry. “I shan’t be all right for years. To emerge with the object of greeting a highly punctilious guest; instead, to be confronted with a quarrel – not to say, brawl, which is not so much indecent as obscene, in which to interfere is as much as one’s life is worth, is not conducive to that sweet and regular rhythm which the valves of the heart should preserve. Which reminds me, great heart, how did you lure the rogue lion away from his kill? I mean, we were occupied.”

“I invoked Lady Touchstone,” said Daphne. “I mean, Lady Plague. I said I was sure that she would be greatly upset if he soiled his hands with such trash. He looked at me very hard. Then he said, ‘Her mantle becomes you’, and let me lead him away.”

“Gorgeous,” said Berry. “Can anyone tell me how the love-scene began?”

I related what I had seen before he arrived.

“That’s Coker all over,” said Berry. “One of these days that energetic blow-fly will come to a violent end. He’ll be dismembered, or something. Between you and me, I thought he was doomed today. He may talk big about Chunkit, but I’m inclined to believe he’s been fired from his native land. America has her faults, but no people on earth could stick behaviour like this. I mean, it’s beyond the mules. I’m only so sorry he didn’t do his ‘penny trick’: Sir Andrew would have loved that, wouldn’t he? Oh, and where was that godsend, Nobby? If only he’d done his duty—”

“I can answer that question,” said Daphne. “Nobby is lying outside the housekeeper’s room.”

 

Six days had gone by, and Fitch was gravely reporting what had occurred in the public bar of The Rose.

“It all went off very well, sir, accordin’ to plan. I comes in, as usual, at half-pas’ nine: and I sits down with Mr Fergus, to drink my beer. Doogle’s up at the bar, lettin’ go, as usual, about the idle rich, with eight or ten lappin’ it up an’ drinkin’ his Scotch. Just about ten minutes later, Warren comes in. He stands quite still inside an’ throws a look round. An’ then he sees Doogle – an’ points, like a dog with a gun. But Doogle never sees him, but goes straight on with his talk. Then Warren straightens up an’ lets his voice go.

“‘Well, Elgood,’ he says…

“I tell you, sir, it was like a scene in a play.

“Doogle starts like he’d been shocked an’ knocks over his glass: then he swings round an’ sees Warren, an’ the blood goes out of his face: an’ then he begins to tremble…

“Warren goes on—

“‘Thought you was safe, did you? Thought you’d lie up here with a change of name? You’ll never be safe, Elgood. I’ll always rout you out wherever you go.’ Then he takes out a newspaper-cutting an’ looks at us all. ‘This is Mr Elgood, of Durham – he’s turned his name round. An’ if you’ll excuse me, gents, I’m goin’ to read you a short report of an inquest – the inquest upon my wife. Mr Elgood’s name is mentioned…’ An’ then he reads the report from beginnin’ to end.”

Fitch hesitated there, and a hand went up to his mouth.

“That poor girl’s letter…an’ the things the Coroner said… An’ Doogle shakin’ all over an’ hidin’ his face in his hands…

“Then he puts the paper away, goes up to Doogle, takes him by the scruff of his neck an’ puts him outside. An’ then he starts in…

“When he’s done, he leaves him down in the gutter and comes in an’ has a pint. Never says a word about Doogle, but talks about the Army an’ this an’ that. An’ then he says ‘Good night all’, an’ walks out of the house.

“I stopped on, as arranged, sir, an’ met him back in the stables before he left. He’s a proper man, sir, Warren… An’ Doogle’s gone. Packed up and left this morning at six o’clock. Jem Hollis saw him takin’ the station road. He didn’t know him at first, his face was that out of shape.”

“That’s very good hearing,” said Berry. “And now that their master’s exposed, let’s hope that Elgood’s disciples will reconsider the doctrines which he has dispensed.”

Fitch smiled.

“Shaken ’em up all right, sir. Their faces last night… They didn’t know where to look.”

As we strolled back to the house—

“We can’t complain,” said Berry. “On the whole, we’ve had a good week. The wicked have been discomfited. Coker has been discouraged: the spirit and manner of the operation were soul-shaking, but the fact remains. Then, Doogle has been reduced – thanks to Anthony’s intuition, with sweet efficiency. Finally, a blasphemous imposition has been destroyed: Coker made a good job of that: Beyond the Mules, after Falk becomes Beyond Repair.”