The Bafflement of the Elusive Baronet
‘How very interesting. Most gratifying too, of course—though, if you don’t mind me saying so, Major Stratton, I am a little puzzled. Major Payne. So sorry. Ha-ha. We used to get regular visits from a Major Stratton at one time. A most remarkable fellow. There have already been two histories of Mayholme Manor. I’ve got them both …’ The Master waved his hand towards the carved and highly coloured group of heavy panels, vaguely Burmese in style, which, Payne imagined, concealed bookshelves filled with vellum-bound volumes. Earlier on the Master had referred to this massive freak of fancy as his petit cosy-corner chinois.
‘I am certainly familiar with the previous two books.’ Payne executed a stiff nod. Before setting off that afternoon he had done some research on the net. ‘One by Lofthouse, the other by Smithers. Both privately published.’
‘Magnificent editions. Gold-embossed. Lavishly illustrated. A joy to handle.’
‘But not to read?’ Payne was sitting on what he believed to be a sham Louis XVI canapé in grey painted wood.
‘To read too! Oh. Ha-ha. You have reservations about Lofthouse and Smithers?’
‘Tout au contraire. I regard those two books as absolute triumphs of the embalmer’s art.’
‘I fear the weather is letting us down, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Most decidedly.’
‘I fear there will be a storm. Coffee. Let’s have coffee, shall we?’ The Master rose. ‘I do hope you will find my coffee no worse than modestly meritorious.’
The Master’s study had tall windows, improbably draped with enormous velvet curtains, abundantly tasselled and overlooking the smoothest shaven lawn imaginable. Payne’s eyes lingered on its razor-trimmed edges enviously. A showcase lawn. Where did the money come from? Donations from grateful brothers?
A gigantic clock made of dark ebony stood in one corner, its pendulum swinging to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous sound. There was also a Regency armoire, which Payne suspected was only the façade for a well-stocked bar.
The Master poured coffee out of a silver Queen Anne pot. He handed the cup over to his visitor with a ceremonious gesture, then he poured a second one for himself.
‘Sugar? No?’
The Master was dressed in a charcoal-grey frock coat and wore a waistcoat the colour of port wine and a cravat striped red and black. His silver beard ended in a sharp point. His gestures could only be described as ‘courtly’. He looks and sounds as sham as the canapé on which I am sitting, Payne thought. Very much like a character actor playing a part. Modestly meritorious indeed. How long did the fellow take to groom his beard each morning?
‘I always imagined our establishment was of a somewhat esoteric interest,’ the Master went on. ‘That’s why I can’t help being a little surprised. Do you believe you will have anything new to say?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have made a couple of rather curious discoveries. The original name of the frieze in the hall downstairs, for example.’ Until quarter of an hour ago Payne had had no idea such a frieze existed.
‘It’s already got a name.’ An impatient note crept into the Master’s voice. ‘The Vision of St Adolphus.’
‘That name was given much later. At least a hundred years later. Initially the frieze was called The Dreadful Holiness of the Groaning Bubble.’ Payne had been a little unsettled by the mad-eyed monks and the headless figure and this now was his revenge. Reductio ad absurdum. Make the bloody thing appear as silly as possible. Burst the bloody bubble. ‘I came across it in a thirteenth-century document. Fascinating stuff. Made my hair stand on end. You had no idea?’
‘No. The groaning bubble? Why groaning?’
‘It’s a literal translation from Latin.’ Payne took a sip of coffee.
‘Bartholomew Lofthouse makes no mention of an earlier name.’
‘I am afraid Lofthouse is not exactly the most reliable of chroniclers. You only need to look at his other books.’
‘I thought his history of Dutton’s Retreat was the only book Lofthouse ever wrote.’
‘There are two others. Lofthouse wrote them under a pseudonym. Not surprising, since they are both on rather controversial—some would say “unsavoury”—subjects.’
‘Really? I would never have thought it of Lofthouse.’ The Master’s fingers absently stroked the ornate lid of the little silver box on the desk before him. ‘Have you written any other books, Major … Payne?’ A note of doubt seemed to have crept into the Master’s voice.
‘Isn’t that Sir Seymour’s snuff-box?’ Payne wasn’t sure it was the box he had seen at Claridge’s, but decided to take a gamble. High time the conversation turned to Sir Seymour.
‘Yes, it is his box. He left it behind last night, after taking his medicine. Must give it back to him. But how did you know? Oh, sorry. You are a friend of Sir Seymour’s, aren’t you? Travis said something about you wanting to see him. I thought at first that was the reason for your visit.’
‘Partly the reason.’ So Sir Seymour had taken the capsule! Payne felt an ice-cold thread run down his spine. ‘I am a friend of Sir Seymour’s son’s, actually,’ he improvised. What was the son’s name now? ‘Um. Tradescant was a bit concerned about his father’s health and asked me to look him up.’
Good thing he belonged to the officer class where calling one’s friend by his surname was still very much the done thing. He wouldn’t have been able to get away with it if he had been an accountant, say, or a state school teacher.
‘The family are all rather worried about Sir Seymour’s health,’ Payne went on. ‘You have met Lady Tradescant, of course?’
‘I have. Lady Tradescant came with Sir Seymour yesterday, which was an exceedingly pleasant surprise. She didn’t stay long. I found her most charming. A most sympathetic kind of person,’ the Master said firmly.
‘What was the capsule for? Tradescant told me but I’ve forgotten. Was it ulcer? Diabetes?’
‘No, no. Sir Seymour has had an infection.’ The Master cleared his throat delicately. ‘His big toe. He has been taking antibiotics.’
‘Antibiotics. Of course. Every eight hours?’
‘Every six hours, I believe. He took the last capsule yesterday evening.’
‘And he is—fine?’
‘I am happy to report that Sir Seymour is no longer in pain.’
‘That’s splendid news. Though isn’t that what they say when someone dies?’
‘Sir Seymour is not dead.’
‘Tradescant will be so pleased. But then why is Sir Seymour being kept behind such an impenetrable cordon sanitaire?’
‘Goodness, Major Payne, whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Sir Seymour seems to be quite inaccessible. His sister was not allowed to see him. Your steward was jolly evasive. He wouldn’t divulge Sir Seymour’s room number. One could be excused for thinking Sir Seymour’s got the plague or cholera or maybe one of those deadly flesh-eating bugs.’
‘No, nothing as serious as that. Flesh-eating bugs! Ha-ha. You seem to be letting your writer’s imagination get the better of you. More coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I think I will treat myself to another cup. I must admit I am fatally drawn to stimulants.’ The Master picked up the coffee pot. He held his little finger elegantly crooked. He hummed a tune under his breath.
Was the old fraud playing for time? Payne was suddenly assailed with sinister thoughts. He is no longer in pain.
‘Have you seen Seymour since last night?’ Payne asked.
‘I have. I saw him at about nine this morning. One of the stewards had reported that Sir Seymour was a bit under the weather. Well, he didn’t look particularly bobbish and he complained of a headache and blurred vision. I called Dr Henley—that’s our resident doctor,’ the Master explained. ‘Dr Henley diagnosed high blood pressure and he gave Sir Seymour an injection. Sir Seymour felt better almost at once, but he asked not to be disturbed. He hadn’t had a good night, it seems, so he needed to rest. He said he proposed to spend the day in bed, reading a detective story. He ordered a full English breakfast, which I thought a very good sign.’
‘He refused to see his sister. Bettina seemed put out.’
‘Sir Seymour did not refuse to see his sister. Sir Seymour doesn’t know his sister was here. It was I who made the decision. Miss Tradescant is a splendid woman, absolutely splendid, but I am afraid sometimes she is—how shall I put it?’
‘A trifle impetuous? Lacking in wisdom?’
‘I honestly feared Miss Tradescant might say something that would send her brother’s blood pressure soaring and bring on a seizure. So I said no. I couldn’t risk it. Miss Tradescant, you are probably aware, is given to entertaining some highly unorthodox ideas.’
‘She is convinced that her brother is dead.’
The Master stroked his beard. ‘So she is. I am aware of the fact. Miss Tradescant was in what could only be described as an “occult mood”. She insisted her brother was dead and I said he wasn’t, and she said she was sure he was. She then accused me of lying and asked me to show her Sir Seymour’s body at once. She said she would call the police and, for some reason, the fire brigade. She had worked herself up into quite a lather. I remained adamant. I couldn’t possibly let her upset Sir Seymour.’
‘I see. Incidentally, is your phone out of order? I tried to ring you several times last night and again today, but there was no signal.’
‘The phone? Oh dear, yes! I am so sorry. We’ve had some major fault. All the lines were down for quite a bit, but, thank God, they’ve been fixed now.’
‘Well, I should very much like to look around, if I may,’ Payne said. ‘I’d like to soak in the atmosphere.’
‘Yes, of course. I will ask one of the stewards to be your guide. Make sure you visit our chapel. It is quite remarkable. Rich in interesting historical associations,’ the Master went on. ‘Baden-Powell prayed there once, back in 1899, two months before the Battle of Mafeking, and then Queen Mary in 1941, on the eve of the Battle of Britain. Profumo also came to pray at the chapel in the spring of 1963.’
‘What did he hope to win? Christine Keeler?’
‘As it happens, Mr Lovell, our librarian, often includes these three in the quiz we do around Christmas. Who is the odd man out and why? Profumo, Queen Mary or Baden-Powell?’
‘I would say Profumo, since he was the only one who, in a manner of speaking, lost his battle?’
‘It isn’t a battle question. Ha-ha. The correct answer is Queen Mary, since she is the only one of the three who is not a man. Mr Lovell can be very naughty. He is extremely popular with the brothers. Exceedingly popular. Mr Lovell’s bons mots are the stuff of legend. I couldn’t recommend the chapel more strongly, Major Payne.’
‘I should love to see the chapel.’ Payne rose. ‘I’d also like to say hello to Sir Seymour from his son, if I may?’
‘I am afraid Sir Seymour made it absolutely clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. Peace is something that is very much taken for granted at Mayholme Manor. Peace and permanency. In fact I can’t think of anything else that’s been taken for granted more—apart from an unwillingness to eat eels, as Mr Lovell put it. Ha-ha.’
‘Ha-ha. Well, Tradescant would be terribly disappointed if I told him I hadn’t been able to talk to his father. You see,’ Payne improvised, ‘he is the kind of chap who would worry and imagine things. You have met him of course?’
‘No, I’ve never had the pleasure.’
‘He might even decide that something dreadful has happened to his father and that you are involved in some kind of suppressio veri. He then will come himself!’
‘You think Nicholas Tradescant may decide to pay his father a visit?’
‘I would say it was most likely. His aunt’s psychic prevision has had him perturbed.’
‘Goodness me. I don’t think Sir Seymour will like that at all. There appears to be a certain—um—froideur between Sir Seymour and his son.’
‘Would you describe relations between Sir Seymour and his son as “strained”? Or worse?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. We mustn’t gossip. Loose lips sink ships. That, as it happens, is Mr Lovell’s catch-phrase of the moment. Ha-ha. An incorrigible comedian, Mr Lovell. Very well.’ The Master rose to his feet with a resigned air. ‘I will take you to Sir Seymour’s room, but we must be careful not to tire him. Such an oppressive day, isn’t it? Wonder if there’s going to be a storm.’