“Oh, rather. Topping place, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lady Coote. “It’s a very large place, and gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding-looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire, Mr. Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall and a cheerful drawing room with an ingle-nook—a white striped paper with a frieze of wisteria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you know, not moiré. Much better taste, I always think. The dining room faced northeast, so we didn’t get much sun in it, but with a good bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints—why, it was as cheerful as Christmas.”
In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Lady Coote. “Now, what was I saying? Oh—about houses—yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things for it gives you an interest.”
“I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these days,” suggested Jimmy. “And then you can have it just as you like.”
Lady Coote shook her head sadly.
“Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it—and you know what that means.”
“Oh! But they’d consult you!”
“It would be one of those grand places—all for the antique. They’d look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir Oswald wasn’t very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit him now but the best! He’s got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants something to show for it, but many’s the time I wonder where it will end.”
Jimmy looked sympathetic.
“It’s like a runaway horse,” said Lady Coote. “Got the bit between its teeth and away it goes. It’s the same with Sir Oswald. He’s got on, and he’s got on, till he can’t stop getting on. He’s one of the richest men in England—but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more. He wants to be—I don’t know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it frightens me sometimes!”
“Like the Persian Johnny,” said Jimmy, “who went about wailing for fresh worlds to conquer.”
Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was talking about.
“What I wonder is—will his stomach stand it?” she went on tearfully. “To have him an invalid—with his ideas—oh, it won’t bear thinking of.”
“He looks very hearty,” said Jimmy consolingly.
“He’s got something on his mind,” said Lady Coote. “Worried that’s what he is. I know.”
“What’s he worried about?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps something at the works. It’s a great comfort for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man—and so conscientious.”
“Marvellously conscientious,” agreed Jimmy.
“Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman’s judgement. He says that Mr. Bateman is always right.”
“That was one of his worst characteristics years ago,” said Jimmy feelingly.
Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.
“That was an awfully jolly weekend I had with you at Chimneys,” said Jimmy. “I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn’t been for poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls.”
“I find girls very perplexing,” said Lady Coote. “Not romantic, you know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own hair when we were engaged.”
“Did you?” said Jimmy. “How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven’t got long hair to do that nowadays.”
“That’s true,” admitted Lady Coote. “But, oh, it shows in lots of other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my—well, my young men—picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was taking a course in mineralogy—or do I mean geology?—at a technical school. But I liked the idea—and stealing a girl’s handkerchief and treasuring it—all those sort of things.”
“Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose,” said the practical Mr. Thesiger.
Lady Coote laid down her woolwork and looked searchingly but kindly at him.
“Come now,” she said. “Isn’t there some nice girl that you fancy? That you’d like to work and make a little home for?”
Jimmy blushed and mumbled.
“I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys that time—Vera Daventry.”
“Socks?”
“They do call her that,” admitted Lady Coote. “I can’t think why. It isn’t pretty.”
“Oh, she’s a topper,” said Jimmy. “I’d like to meet her again.”
“She’s coming down to stay with us next weekend.”
“Is she?” said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful longing into the two words.
“Yes. Would—would you like to come?”
“I would,” said Jimmy heartily. “Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote.”
And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.
Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.
“What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?” he demanded. “I can’t stand that young fellow.”
“He’s a dear boy,” said Lady Coote. “And so brave. Look how he got wounded last night.”
“Yes, messing around where he’d no business to be.”
“I think you’re very unfair, Oswald.”
“Never done an honest day’s work in his life. A real waster if there ever was one. He’d never get on if he had his way to make in the world.”
“You must have got your feet damp last night,” said Lady Coote. “I hope you won’t get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day. Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot you. I’ve asked Mr. Thesiger down for next weekend, by the way.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Oswald. “I won’t have that young man in my house, do you hear, Maria?”
“Why not?”
“That’s my business.”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” said Lady Coote placidly. “I’ve asked him now, so it can’t be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?”
Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.
“I particularly don’t want Thesiger down next weekend,” he said at last. “I’ve heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him.”
“What did Mr. Bateman say?”
“He’d no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him.”
“He did, did he?” said Lady Coote thoughtfully.
“And I have the highest respect for Bateman’s judgement. I’ve never known him wrong.”
“Dear me,” said Lady Coote. “What a mess I seem to have made of things. Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should have told me all this before, Oswald. It’s too late now.”
She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her, made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond—in a quiet, unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner—of getting her own way.
Twenty-six
MAINLY ABOUT GOLF
“That friend of yours is a nice girl, Bundle,” said Lord Caterham.
Loraine had been at Chimneys for nearly a week, and had earned the high opinion of her host—mainly because of the charming readiness she had shown to be instructed in the science of the mashie shot.
Bored by his winter abroad, Lord Caterham had taken up golf. He was an execrable player and in conseq
uence was profoundly enthusiastic over the game. He spent most of his mornings lifting mashie shots over various shrubs and bushes—or, rather, essaying to loft them, hacking large bits out of the velvety turf and generally reducing MacDonald to despair.
“We must lay out a little course,” said Lord Caterham, addressing a daisy. “A sporting little course. Now then, just watch this one, Bundle. Off the right knee, slow back, keep the head still and use the wrists.”
The ball, heavily topped, scudded across the lawn and disappeared into the unfathomed depths of a great bank of rhododendrons.
“Curious,” said Lord Caterham. “What did I do then, I wonder? As I was saying, Bundle, that friend of yours is a very nice girl. I really think I am inducing her to take quite an interest in the game. She hit some excellent shots this morning—really quite as good as I could do myself.”
Lord Caterham took another careless swing and removed an immense chunk of turf. MacDonald, who was passing retrieved it and stamped it firmly back. The look he gave Lord Caterham would have caused anyone but an ardent golfer to sink through the earth.
“If MacDonald has been guilty of cruelty to Cootes, which I strongly suspect,” said Bundle, “he’s being punished now.”
“Why shouldn’t I do as I like in my own garden?” demanded her father. “MacDonald ought to be interested in the way my game is coming on—the Scotch are a great golfing nation.”
“You poor old man,” said Bundle. “You’ll never be a golfer—but at any rate it keeps you out of mischief.”
“Not at all,” said Lord Caterham. “I did the long sixth in five the other day. The pro was very surprised when I told him about it.”
“He would be,” said Bundle.
“Talking of Cootes, Sir Oswald plays a fair game—a very fair game. Not a pretty style—too stiff. But straight down the middle every time. But curious how the cloven hoof shows—won’t give you a six inch putt! Makes you put it in every time. Now I don’t like that.”
“I suppose he’s a man who likes to be sure,” said Bundle.
“It’s contrary to the spirit of the game,” said her father. “And he’s not interested in the theory of the thing either. Now, that secretary chap, Bateman, is quite different. It’s the theory interests him. I was slicing badly with my spoon; and he said it all came from too much right arm; and he evolved a very interesting theory. It’s all left arm in golf—the left arm is the arm that counts. He says he plays tennis left-handed but golf with ordinary clubs because there his superiority with the left arm tells.”
“And did he play very marvellously?” inquired Bundle.
“No, he didn’t,” confessed Lord Caterham. “But then he may have been off his game. I see the theory all right and I think there’s a lot in it. Ah! Did you see that one, Bundle? Right over the rhododendrons. A perfect shot. Ah! If one could be sure of doing that every time—Yes, Tredwell, what is it?”
Tredwell addressed Bundle.
“Mr. Thesiger would like to speak to you on the telephone, my lady.”
Bundle set off at full speed for the house, yelling “Loraine, Loraine,” as she did so. Loraine joined her just as she was lifting the receiver.
“Hallo, is that you, Jimmy?”
“Hallo. How are you?”
“Very fit, but a bit bored.”
“How’s Loraine?”
“She’s all right. She’s here. Do you want to speak to her?”
“In a minute. I’ve got a lot to say. To begin with, I’m going down to the Cootes for the weekend,” he said significantly. “Now, look here, Bundle, you don’t know how one gets hold of skeleton keys, do you?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Is it really necessary to take skeleton keys to the Cootes?”
“Well, I had a sort of idea they’d come in handy. You don’t know the sort of shop one gets them at?”
“What you want is a kindly burglar friend to show you the ropes.”
“I do, Bundle, I do. And unfortunately I haven’t got one. I thought perhaps your bright brain might grapple successfully with the problem. But I suppose I shall have to fall back upon Stevens as usual. He’ll be getting some funny ideas in his head soon about me—first a bluenosed automatic—and now skeleton keys. He’ll think I’ve joined the criminal classes.”
“Jimmy?” said Bundle.
“Yes?”
“Look here—be careful, won’t you? I mean if Sir Oswald finds you nosing around with skeleton keys—well, I should think he could be very unpleasant when he likes.”
“Young man of pleasing appearance in the dock! All right, I’ll be careful. Pongo’s the fellow I’m really frightened of. He sneaks around so on those flat feet of his. You never hear him coming. And he always did have a genius for poking his nose in where he wasn’t wanted. But trust to the boy hero.”
“Well, I wish Loraine and I were going to be there to look after you.”
“Thank you, nurse. As a matter of fact, though, I have a scheme.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you and Loraine might have a convenient car breakdown near Letherbury tomorrow morning? It’s not so very far from you, is it?”
“Forty miles. That’s nothing.”
“I thought it wouldn’t be—to you! Don’t kill Loraine though. I’m rather fond of Loraine. All right, then—somewhere round about quarter to half past twelve.”
“So that they invite us to lunch?”
“That’s the idea. I say, Bundle, I ran into that girl Socks yesterday, and what do you think—Terence O’Rourke is going to be down there this weekend!”
“Jimmy, do you think he—?”
“Well—suspect everyone, you know. That’s what they say. He’s a wild lad, and daring as they make them. I wouldn’t put it past him to run a secret society. He and the Countess might be in this together. He was out in Hungary last year.”
“But he could pinch the formula any time.”
“That’s just what he couldn’t. He’d have to do it under circumstances where he couldn’t be suspected. But the retreat up the ivy and into his own bed—well, that would be rather neat. Now for instructions. After a few polite nothings to Lady Coote, you and Loraine are to get hold of Pongo and O’Rourke by hook or by crook and keep them occupied till lunch time. See? It oughtn’t to be difficult for a couple of beautiful girls like you.”
“You’re using the best butter, I see.”
“A plain statement of fact.”
“Well, at any rate, your instructions are duly noted. Do you want to talk to Loraine now?”
Bundle passed over the receiver and tactfully left the room.
Twenty-seven
NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
Jimmy Thesiger arrived at Letherbury on a sunny autumn afternoon and was greeted affectionately by Lady Coote and with cold dislike by Sir Oswald. Aware of the keen matchmaking eye of Lady Coote upon him, Jimmy took pains to make himself extremely agreeable to Socks Daventry.
O’Rourke was there in excellent spirits. He was inclined to be official and secretive about the mysterious events at the Abbey, about which Socks catechized him freely, but his official reticence took a novel form . . . namely that of embroidering the tale of events in such a fantastic manner that nobody could possibly guess what the truth might have been.
“Four masked men with revolvers? Is that really so?” demanded Socks severely.
“Ah! I’m remembering now that there was the round half-dozen of them to hold me down and force the stuff down my throat. Sure, and I thought it was poison, and I done for entirely.”
“And what was stolen, or what did they try and steal?”
“What else but the crown jewels of Russia that were brought to Mr. Lomax secretly to deposit in the Bank of England.”
“What a bloody liar you are,” said Socks without emotion.
“A liar, I? And the jewels brought over by aeroplane with my best friend as pilot. This is secret history I’m telling you, Socks. Will you ask Jimmy Thesiger there if you
don’t believe me. Not that I’d be putting any trust in what he’d say.”
“Is it true,” said Socks, “that George Lomax came down without his false teeth? That’s what I want to know.”
“There were two revolvers,” said Lady Coote. “Nasty things. I saw them myself. It’s a wonder this poor boy wasn’t killed.”
“Oh, I was born to be hanged,” said Jimmy.
“I hear that there was a Russian countess there of subtle beauty,” said Socks. “And that she vamped Bill.”
“Some of the things she said about Buda Pesth were too dreadful,” said Lady Coote. “I shall never forget them. Oswald, we must send a subscription.”
Sir Oswald grunted.
“I’ll make a note of it, Lady Coote,” said Rupert Bateman.
“Thank you, Mr. Bateman. I feel one ought to do something as a thank offering. I can’t imagine how Sir Oswald escaped being shot—letting alone die of pneumonia.”
“Don’t be foolish, Maria,” said Sir Oswald.
“I’ve always had a horror of cat burglars,” said Lady Coote.
“Think of having the luck to meet one face to face. How thrilling!” murmured Socks.
“Don’t you believe it,” said Jimmy. “It’s damned painful.” And he patted his right arm gingerly.
“How is the poor arm?” inquired Lady Coote.
“Oh, pretty well all right now. But it’s been the most confounded nuisance having to do everything with the left hand. I’m no good whatever with it.”
“Every child should be brought up to be ambidexterous,” said Sir Oswald.
“Oh!” said Socks, somewhat out of her depth. “Is that like seals?”
“Not amphibious,” said Mr. Bateman. “Ambidexterous means using either hand equally well.”
“Oh!” said Socks, looking at Sir Oswald with respect. “Can you?”
“Certainly; I can write with either hand.”
“But not with both at once?”
“That would not be practical,” said Sir Oswald shortly.
“No,” said Socks thoughtfully. “I suppose that would be a bit too subtle.”