A few days later, Uncle Hugh gave a dinner. It was, like many, an all-male affair, and I only came in later, when they were all having coffee. They were apparently in very good humour, and were talking about economic conditions in Britain—not surprisingly, since most of the guests had rather a large stake in the country.
“The point,” my uncle was saying, as I came in, “may well be that we’ve reached the end of parliamentary democracy—the end of its usefulness as a system, I mean. We’re now in with a small majority. I doubt whether we’ll get in next time—and if we should, it would be by the narrowest of margins.”
There were mild protests at this. One Conservative optimist, convinced that another two years of Conservative government would see a great improvement in conditions and a strong swing to his party as a result, prophesied a majority of a hundred seats at the next election. My uncle shook his head.
“So far as I can see, this country’s set. Everyone’s made up his mind—and very few will change. Look. You have a situation in which certain things ought to be done. But they’re politically impossible. The sensible men in both parties realize it. People want—the mass of the people want—to work less and live better. Can’t be done. And no government is going to be elected—not with a large majority, anyway—which truthfully says it can’t be done. Look at us during the last election. We didn’t say it—one of the reasons our stock’s so low now. People thought we could perform miracles—at least, some of the more naïve who voted for us thought they’d really get red meat at every meal within a month after we took office. And certainly Labour’s not going to take the austere line.”
One of the other guests, Lord Ravan, agreed with my uncle. “What happens next?”
“When a system doesn’t work,” said my uncle, “it is eventually replaced by one which will. It can happen accidentally or by design. But it’s got to happen.”
“The Russians,” said Lord Ravan, “have a different system. You’re not turning into a Communist, Mason?”
There was a general laugh. “Not a Communist,” said my uncle, when it had subsided. “In fact, I’m not turning into anything. I’m just giving the situation some thought.”
When the guests had gone, my uncle and I stayed in the drawing-room for a few minutes, talking, and I saw him take a pill from a small bottle and swallow. I asked if he weren’t feeling well.
“No, I’m all right, Christy. But I had a slight digestive upset in Birmingham—the hotel doctor couldn’t make out exactly what it was, though it wasn’t anything serious. Barker (our own doctor) changed my digestive pills when I told him about it—said possibly the other kind wasn’t agreeing with me—not that I take them often.”
I did not say anything. But that night, I did not sleep very well, and I spent the next days in a state of anxiety and indecision. Normally, of course, a simple remark by my uncle that he had changed his pills because of a digestive upset would not have warranted a second thought. But coupled with Raikes’ concern over our accident, it warranted more than that.
The trouble was that, so far as I could see, all paths were marked “no entry”. With some difficulty, I faced up to the problem. Raikes had hinted at the possibility that someone might be trying to kill my uncle. He had no way of proving it, nor had I. The police, should we go to them, would probably brush aside as fantasy such a suspicion based on nothing more than Raikes’ conviction the tyre had been all right—plus a misplaced tyre pump! Because of my uncle’s position, they would probably accord me a good deal of courtesy and attention, none the less. One of their questions was bound to be: has your uncle any enemies? Do you know anyone who would want to harm him?
I did not. And if they were to push their inquiry further and say, “Who had access to the garage key?”, the only answer I could give was: anyone. Anyone—including all the members of my family and Tay, who had dined at the house the night before the accident. It was not the sort of thing I could see myself saying to a police inspector.
I tried, over that week-end, to put the matter out of my mind. To reassure myself that my ideas were the product of two over-active imaginations—Raikes’ and my own—I telephoned to various members of my family, ostensibly for the dual purpose of finding out how they were and discussing arrangements for the family house-party which was being held at Feathers the next week-end to celebrate my uncle’s sixtieth birthday. My real motive was to convince myself of the essential normality of my relatives and the absurdity of my suspicions.
I spoke to Charles in Paris. He said that he was touched by my solicitude, that Paris was very gay, and that he understood that Giles had picked up a most curious girlfriend who lived, of all places, in Redcot. (As Redcot was the next village to ours, in the country, my interest in this piece of information was, like his, very great.) He sounded exactly the same as usual: amusing, detached, a little brittle, and perhaps—underneath it all—a little tough. I called Daphne, heard in boring detail about the health of Robert and the children, and asked her if it were true that she was developing an interest in the literary life. I thought her answer sounded embarrassed and a little slow in coming, but in general she sounded quite as usual. I rang up Andrew’s wife, Anne, and carefully avoided all questions pertaining to Tay and the business. I had a word with Tay about a new play which we had both seen. (Even in view of the exigent circumstances, I was not willing to hold an extra conversation with my Uncle William, still less with my Aunt Mildred.) When I had finished these calls, I had received no reassurance at all. If anything, my uneasiness was deepened, for I had been struck—as always—by the curious barriers which seemed to exist between all of us, in spite of our interest in one another’s concerns.
By Monday, it became clear to me that I must talk to someone. The most level-headed person I knew was my Uncle Hugh. Unfortunately, since he was the main person concerned, the situation was a bit delicate. More important, since I knew in advance that he would make light of the matter, this was really just a way of avoiding the issue. But I could not bring myself to take any more decisive action.
My opportunity came on Wednesday night. We had dined at home together, and spent the evening working. We finished what we were doing about eleven and sat talking, eating the sandwiches and drinking the whisky the butler had left on a tray in the library. Outside, it was wild with rain and a howling wind. In the library it was peaceful, the leather-bound books gave off their usual, peculiar musty odour, and ordinary political strife itself seemed a world away—let alone violent death.
I became aware that I had not answered my uncle’s last remark and looked up. He was smiling at me faintly. “You’ve something on your mind, Christy.”
It seemed as good a time as any. “Yes,” I said. “I have—though I know you’ll laugh. It’s these things that have happened to you lately. Did you ever think—what if they aren’t purely accidental?”
My uncle looked at me as if I had suddenly begun to speak in an unknown tongue. “You’re serious, Chris?”
“Yes.”
“A blowout, a strong reaction to digestive pills or to the accident—my dear Christy!”
“Yes. I know. But supposing—just for the sake of argument—that they had been—arranged?”
“You are asking me seriously to assume that someone is trying either to injure me or even to murder me? It’s not like you to be so melodramatic, Chris. You’ve always been level-headed. Now if it were Daphne——”
“I know. But even so—do you know of anyone who would dislike you enough to want to injure you—or even to murder you?”
My uncle made an impatient sound. “Any man who’s made a lot of money and been in politics is bound to make enemies. Do I know anyone who hates me enough to take steps—to injure or to kill me—no, I don’t. The idea’s preposterous, Chris. This is England—not Corsica.”
I did not answer at once. Finally, I said, “I know. But the war’s not been over so long that people trained to violence or used to violence have forgotten all about it.”
“It’s a more violent world than it was twenty years ago. Perhaps England’s more violent than it was even ten years ago. I’ll grant you that. But even so, we don’t go in for assassinating our business or political rivals here.”
“Not ordinarily.”
My uncle gave me a shrewd glance. I could not tell what he was thinking. “What is it, Chris? What are you trying to say?”
“No more than I’ve said. Except—you never have been ordinary. Some people think this Freemen of Britain isn’t ordinary either.”
Nothing changed in my uncle’s face. “What do they think it is?”
“They’re not sure.”
“But they’re sure it’s not something ordinary?”
“Let’s say they have never known you to be associated with anything ordinary.”
The clock boomed out midnight. The fire was dying down, and it was chilly in the library. My uncle said, “You hear things here and there, is that it? How much of it could you trace back to your cousin Giles?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I saw Giles last week. He said something very indirectly—but nothing directly.”
“He follows my movements with great care,” said my uncle. He did not seem perturbed by this thought. Nor did his next remark cause him any worry. The fact it expressed had been familiar to all of us for too long. “You would have thought his extraordinary dislike for me would persuade him to find other objects of interest.”
For once, I spoke without thinking. “He’s so much like you.”
“Like me?” My uncle was amused and his surprise was genuine. “Christy, you need a vacation. I cannot remember more than one or two subjects—unimportant ones, at that—upon which your cousin and I have ever agreed.”
So we left it. I had spoken unguardedly, but I meant what I said. My uncle was not an intellectual; Giles was. My uncle was almost a dandy in his dress; Giles did not own one really good suit. My uncle had been in the War Ministry and had refused a seat in the Conservative Cabinet; Giles was a violent, Left-wing Socialist. But they both loved power. This passion which they shared of course drove them apart rather than together.
My talk with my uncle therefore accomplished nothing. I did not convince him that he might be in danger, and I gained no reassurance myself. I did not look forward to the party at Feathers with any pleasure.
The week-end started off inauspiciously. First, Charles telephoned from Paris to say that he had become tied up in something rather important and didn’t think he could get to Feathers before Sunday morning. I then had to wait for some things to be delivered from the shops, and they were late. I drove down to Feathers to find that my aunt had once more tried to issue a few orders to my uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Rapp, who was consequently in a very bad temper. By the time I had calmed her, dealt with various domestic matters, and eaten a hasty lunch, I took an extremely gloomy view of the coming party.
But by the early afternoon, things brightened. Mrs. Rapp recovered her normally even temper and the weather, which had been chilly and rainy, improved steadily. I went for a walk before tea and looked at the greenhouse, the gardens, and the tennis courts. As I walked there by myself, recollections of my childhood came back to me vividly. Looking back, things seemed to have been very simple and pleasant, at least compared with the way they were now. I could remember a picnic one summer—I must have been about twelve. Charles was sixteen and had his first girlfriend. We were all teasing him about her. He was being very aloof and superior, but his eyes were shining with excitement. Timmy was playing some absurd game with Giles, and I remembered how gentle Giles had been with his younger brother. (Timmy had been killed in France in 1940.) It was all a long time ago.
My nostalgia was interrupted by the arrival of Daphne and Robert for tea. But I was left in rather a good mood, and the strain of the last few weeks seemed to have lifted somewhat. Anne came in just as we were finishing tea, and we were still talking children and the virtues of various schools when the others—Uncle Hugh, Uncle William and Aunt Mildred, Andrew, and Tay—arrived at about six. We all had drinks before going off to dress, and the general mood was easy and gay.
Because of this evidence of good humour, the evening went off well. Dinner was very good, and we spent the evening listening to the wireless, gossiping, and playing bridge. By midnight, when I went to bed, I was almost reconciled to spending three nights under the same roof with my Aunt Mildred.
Technically, as my uncle’s hostess, I felt responsible for the guests in his home. However, as they were all relatives—except Tay, and he almost counted as one since he required no more attention than they did—I felt they could amuse themselves during the day. So I slept late and had breakfast in bed. When I came downstairs about 10.30, Aunt Mildred had gone into the village, Daphne, Anne, Bob, and Andrew had gone off to play golf. Tay was out for a walk. Uncle William had disappeared somewhere and Uncle Hugh was working in the library. After a few minutes with Mrs. Rapp, I went to see if my uncle needed me for anything.
I rapped on the library door and went in. Uncle Hugh was talking on the telephone. He sounded curt, and he had an odd look on his face. As I entered, he was saying, “No. I’ve got it. I’ll see to it immediately. Don’t worry.” He hung up, and then, seeing me, spoke to me in his normal voice. “Good morning, Christy. Everything all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “I came to see if you needed me for anything.”
“No—there’s no work for you. But there is one thing. I’ve got a young man coming. He’ll be here by lunch-time and he’ll probably stay over till Monday. Tell Mrs. Rapp, will you?”
I was somewhat surprised that my uncle had invited a stranger to what was essentially a family party. But I supposed it must be for some important reason. I said I would arrange things. “What’s his name, by the way?”
“Donald Gresham.”
I happened to be crossing the front hall when Donald Gresham arrived, so I introduced myself. He was a young man—about thirty—and he spoke with a slight North-country accent. I guessed him to be the product of some local grammar school, and to be working in an office or a bank. He was rather ordinary looking. But he had a very attractive voice, and his eyes were the dark, passionate eyes of the fanatic. Though I guessed, both from his clothes and from his manner, that he was not used to luxury, he did not seem especially self-conscious at being at Feathers, and he was very polite.
I took him along to say hello to my uncle before showing him to his room. My uncle said he would look after his guest, and I went out. I did not see either of them for the rest of the morning.
When I went into the library, where we generally had drinks just before lunch, I found everyone there but my uncle and Mr. Gresham. Aunt Mildred asked where my uncle had gone—she thought he had been working in the library.
“He was. But he’s invited a man for the rest of the week-end. Donald Gresham. I imagine Uncle Hugh’s showing him round now.”
“Invited a man here for the rest of the week-end? Really, Christy, you might have told us.”
“I didn’t know till I came down this morning. Anyway what’s it matter?”
“On a family occasion——” began my Uncle William.
“Do you know who he is, Chris?”
“No I’ve never heard of him. Do any of you know him?”
No one did. But I was aware of some tension in the room that had not been there before. If no one had met Mr. Gresham, someone—or several people there—suspected something about him. I looked around at the faces so familiar to me. They told me nothing.
Uncle Hugh and his guest came in shortly, and after general introductions, we all went in to lunch. The conversation went along smoothly, but the ease of the night before had gone. I was sure that everyone was thinking about Donald Gresham: what was he doing at Feathers and what was his connection with Uncle Hugh? Everyone was polite, but the unspoken questions seemed to hover in the air.
Nor was curiosity the only thing in the atmosphere. There was something else. I recognized it easily: hostility. It seemed to me so palpable that I almost felt I could touch it. I often sensed the unspoken hostility when the members of my family were together. I had become used to it. But there was something new to-day. It could be because it was directed towards the unfamiliar Mr. Gresham. But that was not all. There was another element. Someone was under pressure who normally contributed little to the family malaise. Robert? Daphne? Anne? As I looked at them now, I had the feeling that they all looked different somehow—more troubled or more intense than usual.
The butler, Sanderson, was passing the sweet. I helped myself and when I again looked at the faces of my cousins, they seemed as normal as ever. Uncle Hugh had told some story, and they were all laughing. I felt very much relieved. My over-active imagination had evidently produced something that was not there. Uncle Hugh told another story, I joined in the general laughter, and lunch ended a good deal better than it had begun.
In retrospect, I remember little of that afternoon. It rained off and on, and most of us stayed in the house. Uncle Hugh and his guest spent their time in the library. Tay read a book, and Andrew went for a walk. In spite of my efforts, my Aunt Mildred ran me down and insisted on talking to me. After a good deal of fruitless speculation about Mr. Gresham—in which I declined to join—she asked me in a solemn voice whether I knew that Giles had been seen in the neighbourhood lately. I have often wondered why some branch of Intelligence did not recruit my aunt. She would have been a very efficient spy. I hesitated, not wishing to discuss Giles with her, and finally said I had heard something about it.
“Then you know he’s keeping a woman down here?”
“He’s not keeping a woman,” I said. “She’s a painter. She has a cottage in Redcot. I suppose he comes down to see her.”
“It’s a disgrace,” said my aunt.
“For Giles to have a girlfriend?”
“Don’t be absurd, Christy. You know what I mean.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t. Giles is of age, and at liberty to do as he pleases. It’s none of our business.”
“Giles is a member of this family. Of course it’s our business. But for him to deliberately insult us by keeping a woman in our own village——”
“You don’t know that he’s keeping her,” I said, wearily. “I’ve told you it’s her cottage. And Redcot’s not our village. Now you really must excuse me. I’ve rather a lot of things to do.”
I managed a period of comparative peace until tea-time. But I had not heard the last about my cousin Giles. After tea, my Uncle William approached me solemnly and said he wanted a word with me about a private matter. There was no escape, so we went into the small sitting-room on the ground floor and I asked what it was about.
“It’s about Giles.”
“Oh, no,” I said, before I could stop myself.
My uncle looked at me coldly. “I’m aware that you have already had a conversation with your aunt about him, Christy. She felt that you were very evasive with her and that you knew more than you were saying. After all, you do see more of Giles than the rest of us do.”
“I see very little of him. And I know nothing more than I’ve said. I only heard some gossip—that he had a girlfriend and that she lived at Redcot.”
“Giles is living with her. I’ve made some inquiries.”
“You can’t trust village gossip. In any case, what does it matter?”
My uncle said, “I don’t think you have any sense of family responsibility at all, Christy. What Giles does reflects on all of us. But you never think of things like that. I dislike to bring up what must be a painful subject, my dear, but your own behaviour is a case in point. When you made that very unwise marriage, you consulted no one. That Fane boy—everyone knew how wild he was. And there were stories——”
I got up and walked out. I nearly knocked down Tay in the passage. He took me by the arm and led me into the light. “You look ghastly, Christy. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“You need a drink. Come along and get one.”
We found whisky in the dining-room and sat down. “I gather you don’t want to talk,” said Tay.
“No.”
He smiled. “Well, remember one thing. There’s only thirty-six hours to go.”
I looked at him with relief. “That’s the first cheerful thought I’ve heard all day.”
At dinner, my Uncle Hugh was at his best. His best was extremely good. The tension in the room—our individual, private tensions and the general strain between individuals—was feverishly high. But Uncle Hugh either did not notice the general malaise that prevailed at the beginning of dinner, or else chose to ignore it. He was a charming and entertaining host, and he carried us all with him. I remember reading about charisma when I was studying political science at Cambridge. I have never seen a better illustration of it than my Uncle Hugh that night.
The next morning, I was awakened by Charles. His news was so shocking that I did not even ask him how or when he had arrived at Feathers. For he came to tell me that Uncle Hugh had died during the night.