22

An argument had broken out at the top table, which was formed by the transverse section of the T. John had refused to sit at the very centre, the junction of the two rows of tables, and for a while the chair had remained empty. Then, as the result of popular appeal, it was decided that the old man should sit there.

He had in fact within a very short time of his appearance become a favourite figure, largely because he seemed the only person genuinely oblivious of the increasing abnormality of the proceedings. Something of its incongruous nature had begun to creep in from those who, on the fringes of the party, had been embarrassed by Alex’s display of violence outside. The paradox of soberly dressed people celebrating in a room which to a stranger’s eyes was a model of decay might at first have been amusing; but now that the occasion had been solemnised, first by Alex’s gesture, then by the Provost’s rueful incantation of grace, a sort of self-consciousness, an uncertain awareness of morbidity and intenseness, had reduced the initial spontaneity to a low and suspicious murmur. The old man, however, was extremely relaxed and indeed seemed almost familiar with the extraordinary environment, even provoking some amusement by his reaction to the deportment of the waiter who served him. It was rumoured that in his early youth he had been a retainer at the Place.

The murmur of conversation had now sunk to a level where it was easily dominated by the sound of cutlery and plates and the quiet orders which sent the waiters moving to and from different parts of the room. John, tense and withdrawn, sat as the focus of this subdued party, occasionally raising his head to smile at Stella or to acknowledge some casual remark from Austen, who seemed unaware of the atmosphere and chatted to those on his right and left as if all were going off as he had intended.

Then, when it seemed that some intrusion by John was inevitable, the doors, which had been closed against the draughts of the building, were pushed open, and Leonard entered.

Conversation, already considerably diminished, stopped abruptly. Those with their backs to the newcomer turned to stare over their shoulders; those facing him peered with a kind of inscrutable curiosity; the waiters stood erect in almost parodied attitudes of respect. Intensely pale, and with a ferocious look in his dark eyes, Leonard entered and walked down the length of the room. Alex, who rose to greet him with extreme and sudden affability, he acknowledged with a slight, awkward bow; once seated, he gazed down at the table with an expression which, to the surprise and the concealed amusement of some, was unmistakably one of acute embarrassment. His face slowly coloured until, raising his head slightly, he glanced up from beneath his dark brows as if to confirm that he was still the centre of attention.

Alex, however, seemed the one to be most surprised by his behaviour. He glanced at Austen as though in some way he had been deceived; then, as if such shyness were itself contagious, he sat looking at his nephew with a faint blush on his own determined features. Only when a waiter approached and asked what Leonard would like did Alex relax with some commentary on the choice of food. He watched his nephew acutely.

Conversation restarted. The red-faced photographer had suddenly reappeared and backed into a corner, peering into the top of his camera. Apparently having taken one photograph very quickly he suddenly turned to the window beside him and, after a lengthy struggle with the catch, opened it and stood breathing deeply. From some distant corner of the Place came the sound of breaking glass, like a stone penetrating a window, but although several heads turned at the noise, in the rising tide of animation that had begun to sweep the room no one gave it any real attention. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter.

As though resenting any detraction of interest from himself, the old man had risen from his place at the centre of the top table and was now making gestures in the direction of the photographer, whom he obviously had some difficulty in seeing. Reassured by sounds of amusement, he began the difficult feat of climbing onto his chair which, despite the discouragement of those on either side, he eventually accomplished. Balanced precariously above the table he now gave his gestures freer reign, increasing them in scale and variation, and bringing from his audience cries of ‘Good old Arthur!… Come on, Arthur!’

Interspersed with demands for the photographer who was now making frantic adjustments to the lenses of his camera, the old man’s gestures gradually matured into those of an unmistakable obscenity, a kind of unwitting insolence that was heightened by suggestive undulations of his emaciated body. As he gyrated precariously on the narrow pivot of his chair his gesticulations attained an almost rhythmical frenzy, until they were abruptly terminated by a loud and unnaturally prolonged emission of wind.

The photographer now found that all eyes and interest had reverted to him. It was as if he had been the real centre of curiosity all along. For a moment he occupied himself with a large attachment protruding from the front of his camera, then began to wander slowly round the tables sighting the instrument at various groups of the party. By this time the old man had returned to his chair and, considerably flushed, was grinning cheerfully at his closest neighbours and nodding his head as if in satisfaction at his recent display. A moment later John rose to his feet, banged the table erratically with his spoon, and announced that Austen would make a preliminary speech on behalf of the hosts.

His brother rose with notes in one hand, his glasses, which he seldom if ever wore in public, in the other, and a certain calm, almost mischievous expression on his face, which he turned first on John, then on his audience at large. He spoke briefly and concisely about the history of the family and the Place, tracing in its struggles the battle between on the one hand its strong puritan and republican character, and on the other certain catholic and royalist sympathies which had never quite abated. He spoke of the Civil War, and its division of the family, as if it were an event that had taken place only in recent years. It was an ambiguity that was never really resolved, so that when he eventually referred to Leonard as ‘that one person whom we must now impress not only with the weight and the significance of his inheritance, but with his obligation to respect and to uphold those traditions which in a decaying world the family has struggled to maintain’, no one was quite sure whether to interpret this as an ironical comment deserving laughter or as a serious if inelegant attempt to retrieve for the party some sort of dignity and purpose. As Leonard began to rise during the hesitant burst of applause which ended Austen’s speech, his father stood very quickly and, raising his hand, began to respond to the toast of the family which Austen had proposed.

John spoke hurriedly, almost incoherently, as though activated by some kind of shock, glancing whenever he paused in Austen’s direction and driven on it seemed by the open curiosity that began to centre on Leonard. Eventually, however, he was distracted by sounds which rose from the old man’s direction: they might have been the mumbling of words or even a more generalised indication of boredom, a noise like a low and persistent groan. The guests refrained from acknowledging it by avoiding the spot with their eyes.

Then a loud and certainly more familiar sound came from the elderly guest. It lasted several seconds, was interrupted, then continued at a slightly higher and more penetrating pitch, wailing off into a distant moan like a faint and derisive echo of itself. Such a versatile demonstration of his powers the old man himself seemed incapable of resisting and, to suppressed murmurs from his audience, he half-rose from his seat.

Whether he was about to speak or not they never discovered, for the next moment the upward motion of his head changed to a slow, parabolic descent, and he crashed forward into a bowl of fruit and cream which lay on the table before him.

The hideous repression of amusement could no longer be restrained, and with guilty looks at their host who, strangely, was holding one hand to his eyes, they burst into loud and uproarious laughter – expressing their concern, however, by standing up and preparing to go to the old man’s help. But what stimulated their laughter, driving it on to fresh peaks of hilarity, was that he persisted in keeping his head immersed. It was only when Alex, sternly immune to the mood of the room, reached across and lifted that ancient skull and peered into its whitened face, that it became apparent that things were not quite what they had seemed. Within a moment, and before the real climax of laughter had passed or the photographer, who had already taken several pictures, had had time to adjust his lenses, Alex announced that the old man was dead.

At the same moment that the murmurous shock swept through the room, Leonard stood up and, as though it had been at the back of his mind the whole time, turned and walked stiffly over to the fireplace where, peculiarly erect, he stood gazing intently at the figure carved in relief. It seemed a genuine moment of distraction as though noticing the conclusion of the meal, he had excused himself and gone over to investigate something which until now etiquette had prevented him doing. Genuine, that is, but for a certain stiffness, most conspicuous in the erectness of his head and shoulders.

Meanwhile the Provost had taken charge of the body, discouraging Isabel’s more extreme attempts to confirm the absence of life, and calling on the robust photographer to supervise the clearing of the room. Alex had gone to the door, taking Matthew with him, to drive down to the nearest call-box on the estate. John and Stella stood silently to one side as the Provost laid the body on the floor and knelt beside it. They seemed absent-minded, expressionless. Yet a moment later there appeared on John’s face a strange, almost strangled look of elation.

Austen had gone over to Leonard, standing behind him a moment, then suddenly touching his shoulder reflectively. Leonard swayed slightly as the tension immediately left his body in an attitude of physical exhaustion. Only as he went towards the door did he seem to notice the old man and the group collected around him and, pausing a moment as though to reassure himself that they no longer required his assistance, he left the room.