“Well,’ said Ursula, ‘Peregrine is the Duke’s only son. He’s just eighteen and a really nice boy, in spite of it.’
‘In spite of what?’ I asked, muddled.
‘Adulteration,’ said Ursula, ominously and incomprehensibly. I decided not to try to disentangle this one.
‘Go on,’ I said, hoping that things would become clearer.
Well, Perry was at St Jonah’s . . . you know, that frightfully posh school that they say is better than Eton or Harrow?’
‘The one that costs ten thousand pounds a term without food? Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘My dear, only the very best people’s children get sent there,’ said Ursula, ‘it’s as exclusive as . . . as . . . as . . .’
‘Harrods?’
‘Well, more or less,’ agreed Ursula, doubtfully.
‘So Perry was at St Jonah’s,’ I prompted.
‘Yes, and doing frightfully well, so the headmaster said. And out of the blue came this bolt,’ she said, lowering her voice to a penetrating whisper.
‘Bolt?’ I said, puzzled. ‘What bolt?’
‘Out of the blue, darling,’ went on Ursula impatiently, ‘you know how bolts come. I do wish you’d stop interrupting, darling, and let me get on with the story.’
‘I wish you’d get on with the story, too,’ I said. ‘So far all I’ve got out of it is an adulterated Duke’s son with a bolt, and I have no means of knowing whether this is an affliction or not.’
‘Well, be quiet and let me tell you. If you’d stop talking for a moment I could get a word in sideways.’
I sighed.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll be quiet.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ said Ursula, squeezing my hand. ‘Well, as I say, Perry was doing frightfully well when along came this bolt. Reggie and Marjorie went to the school. Reggie was employed as their art master because, you know, he is awfully good at oil-painting and etching and things like that, although I do think he’s rather eccentric and so I was surprised at St Jonah’s taking him, really, because it’s so posh that they don’t really go in for eccentrics, if you know what I mean?’
‘Why is he eccentric?’
‘Well, my dear, don’t you think it’s eccentric to have an oil painting of your wife in the nude hung over the mantelpiece in your drawing room? I told him I thought it was more suitable for the bathroom, if you had to put it on the wall, and he said that he had thought of hanging it in the guest bedroom. I ask you, darling, if that’s not eccentric, what is?’
I did not say so, but I rather warmed to Reggie.
‘So Reggie was the bolt?’ I enquired.
‘No, darling, Marjorie, was the bolt. The moment Perry saw her he fell violently in love with her, because she is rather beautiful – if you like those women from the South Seas that Chopin used to paint.’
‘Gauguin?’ I suggested.
‘Probably,’ said Ursula vaguely. ‘Anyway, she really is quite pretty, but I think she’s just a weeny bit stupid. Well, she behaved very stupidly with Perry because she encouraged him. And then came another bolt.’
‘Another bolt?’ I queried, steeling myself.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My dear, the silly girl went and fell in love with Perry, and as you know she’s almost old enough to be his mother and has a baby. Well, perhaps she’s not old enough to be his mother, exactly, but he’s eighteen and she’s thirty if she’s a day, although she always swears she’s twenty-six, but anyway, it doesn’t alter the fact that the whole thing was most unsuitable. Naturally, Reggie got very despondent.’
‘He could have solved the problem by giving Perry the portrait of Marjorie,’ I suggested.
Ursula gave me a reproving look.
‘It’s no laughing matter, darling,’ she said severely. ‘We have all been in a complete turmoil, I can tell you.’
I was fascinated by the thought of seeing a Duke in a turmoil, but I did not say so.
‘So what happened?’ I asked.
‘Well, Reggie tackled Marjorie and she confessed that she had fallen in love with Perry and that they had been having an affair behind the gym, of all uncomfortable places. So, not unnaturally, Reggie got fearfully annoyed and gave her a black eye, which was really quite uncalled for, as I told him. He then went looking for Perry to give him a black eye, I suppose, but luckily Perry had gone home for the week-end, so Reggie couldn’t find him, which was just as well because Perry’s not a very strong boy, poor dear, whereas Reggie is built like an ox, as well as having a terrible temper.’
Now that the plot had started to unfold, I found myself starting to take an interest in it, in spite of myself.
‘Go on,’ I said, ‘what happened next?’
‘This is the worst part of the whole thing,’ said Ursula, in her penetrating whisper. She took a sip of her drink and glanced around to make sure that the whole of Venice, now assembled around us for a pre-lunchtime drink, was not eavesdropping. She leant forward and pulled me towards her by my hand. I leant across the table and she whispered in my ear. ‘They eloped,’ she hissed, and sat back to see the effect of her words.
‘You mean Reggie and Perry eloped?’ I asked, in well-simulated astonishment.
‘Idiot,’ said Ursula angrily, ‘you know perfectly well what I mean, Perry and Marjorie eloped. I do wish you would stop making fun of this, it’s very serious.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘do go on.’
‘Well,’ said Ursula, slightly mollified by my apology, ‘of course this really put a cat among the pigeons. Reggie was simply furious because Marjorie had not only eloped but had taken the baby and the nannie with her.’
‘It certainly sounds like a very overcrowded elopement.’
‘And naturally,’ Ursula continued, ‘Perry’s father took it very hard. As you can imagine it’s difficult for a Duke to condone his only son’s adulteration.’
‘But adultery is when the husband is at fault, as a rule,’ I protested.
‘I don’t care who’s at fault,’ said Ursula firmly, ‘it’s still adulteration.’
I sighed. The problem itself seemed complex enough without the additional difficulty of having Ursula’s interpretation of it.
‘In any case,’ she went on, ‘as I told Marjorie it was as good as incest.’
‘Incest?’
‘Yes,’ said Ursula, ‘after all, the boy was underage and in any case, as she well knew, adulteration has to be done by adults.’
I took a deep drink of my brandy to steady myself. It was obvious that Ursula had grown worse over the years.
‘I think I had better take you to lunch while you tell me the rest of this.’
‘Oh, darling will you? How wonderful. But I mustn’t be late because I’ve got to go to Marjorie’s, because I don’t know where Reggie is and the Duke’s arriving.’
‘You mean,’ I said slowly and carefully, ‘that all these people you have been talking about are here, in Venice?’
‘But of course, sweetie,’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘That’s why I want you to help me. Didn’t you understand?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t understand. But just remember that I have not the slightest intention of getting muddled up in this affair. Let’s go and have lunch . . . where would you like to go?’
‘I’d like to go to the “Laughing Cat”,’ said Ursula.
‘Where the hell’s that?’
‘I don’t know, but I was told it was very good,’ she said, powdering her nose.
‘All right, I’ll find out,’ I said. I called the waiter over, paid for the drinks and asked the way to the “Laughing Cat”. It turned out to be within easy walking distance of the Piazza San Marco, a small but well-appointed little restaurant which, judging by the fact that most of its clientele were Venetian
s, was going to provide us with pretty substantial fare. We found a pleasant table out on the pavement under an awning and I ordered mussels simmered in cream and parsley, followed by stuffed shoulder of kid with a chestnut purée the way they serve it in Corsica. We were – fortunately – just demolishing the kid (which melted in your mouth), and were thinking in terms of some Dolcelatte cheese to be followed, perhaps, by some fresh fruit, when Ursula, looking over my shoulder, gave a gasp of horror. I looked round to see a very powerful, and exceedingly drunk gentleman approaching our table, tacking from side to side like a yacht.
‘Oh, my God, it’s Reggie,’ said Ursula. ‘How did he know they were in Venice?’
‘It’s all right, they’re not here,’ I pointed out.
‘But they will be in a minute,’ wailed Ursula. ‘I’ve arranged to meet them and the Duke here. What shall I do? Quick, darling, think of something.’
Whether I liked it or not it seemed inevitable that I was going to get embroiled in this whole ridiculous saga. I took a deep draught of wine to steady myself and rose to my feet as Reggie, more by good luck than good management, arrived at our table.
‘Reggie, darling,’ cried Ursula, ‘what a lovely surprise. What are you doing in Venice?’
‘Lo, Ursula,’ said Reggie, swaying gently and having difficulty in focusing his eyes and enunciating with clarity, ‘amin Ven Vennish to kill a dirty rat . . . a dirty loushy little rat, thass what I’m in Vennish for . . . thass what, see?’
Not only was Reggie a large man, built on the lines of an all-in wrestler, but he had a large pithecanthropic face with a straggling beard and moustache. He was partly bald and wore his hair at shoulder length. To add to this singularly unattractive appearance he was wearing a bright ginger, ill-fitting tweed suit, a scarlet roll-top pullover and sandals. Nevertheless, he did look quite capable of killing young Perry if he could get hold of him, and I began to give serious thought to the problem of luring him out of the restaurant before the other protagonists arrived.
‘Reggie, darling, this is a friend of mine, Gerry Durrell,’ said Ursula, breathlessly.
‘Pleeshtermeetyer,’ said Reggie, holding out a hand like a Bayonne ham and wringing mine in a vice-like grip.
‘Do join us for a drink?’ I suggested and Ursula gave me a warning look. I winked at her.
‘Drink,’ said Reggie throatily, leaning heavily on the table. ‘Thash what I want . . . a drink . . . sheveral big drinks . . . all in a big glash . . . hunereds and hunereds of drinks . . . I’ll have a double whishky and water.’
I got him a chair and he sat down heavily. I beckoned the waiter and ordered whisky.
‘Do you think you ought to drink any more?’ asked Ursula, unwisely. ‘It seems to me you’ve had rather a lot already, darling.’
‘Are you surghesting I’m drunk?’ asked Reggie ominously.
‘No, no,’ said Ursula, hastily, realizing her error. ‘I just thought perhaps another drink wouldn’t be a very good idea.’
‘I,’ said Reggie, pointing a finger the size of a banana at his chest so that we should be in no doubt as to whom he was referring, ‘I’m as jober as a sudge.’
The waiter arrived with the drink and placed it in front of Reggie.
‘Drink, thash what I want,’ said Reggie, lifting the glass somewhat unsteadily. ‘Here’s death to all miser . . . miserubbubble creeping little arish . . . arishtocratic pimps.’
He drained the glass and sat back with a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Lesh have another one,’ he suggested cheerfully.
‘Why don’t we toddle along to the Piazza San Marco and have another drink there?’ I suggested smoothly.
‘Ooo, yes, what a good idea,’ chimed in Ursula.
‘I’m not narrow minded,’ said Reggie earnestly ‘I don’ mind where I drink.’
‘Right, San Marco it is,’ I decided, beckoning the waiter for the bill.
Before he could bring it, however, we were (as Ursula would, no doubt, have put it) hit by a bolt from the blue. I heard her give a despairing squeak of alarm, and turned to find a tall, thin, rather aristocratic gentleman at my elbow, who looked not unlike a grey praying mantis in a Savile Row suit and shoes that had obviously been made for him at Lobb’s. In addition he was wearing an old Etonian tie, and had a triangle of Irish linen handkerchief, the size of a rabbit’s scut, peeping out of his breast pocket. He had silver grey hair, a silver grey face and a silver grey monocle in one silver grey eye. This, I decided, could only be the Duke of Tolpuddle.
‘Ursula, my dear child, I am so sorry to be late, but my wretched vaporetto broke down. I do apologize,’ he said, beaming at Reggie and me, exuding well-bred charm, secure in the knowledge that, with the blue blood that flowed in his veins, he would always be sure of a welcome, however late he was.
‘Oh, oh . . . er . . . oh, don’t mention it,’ said Ursula faintly.
‘And who are your friends?’ asked the Duke, benignly, ready to treat Reggie and I as if we were members of the human race. I realized, with delicious satisfaction, that the Duke and Reggie did not know each other. I sat back and beamed at Ursula, who gave me a despairing look out of her huge, hunted blue eyes.
‘Do introduce us, darling,’ I said.
Ursula glared at me.
‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘this is an old friend of mine, Gerry Durrell and this is . . . and this is . . . er . . . this is Reggie Montrose!
The Duke stiffened, and his benign expression slipped for a brief moment. Then he straightened up and screwed his monocle more firmly into his eyes, preparing himself to do the decent thing.
‘Whoes thish?’ enquired Reggie, focusing the Duke with difficulty.
Ursula looked at me desperately. I shrugged. There was, after all, nothing I could do to fend off the crisis.
‘Whoes thish blighter?’ asked Reggie, pointing a banana finger at the Duke.
‘This is . . . er . . . this is . . . er . . . the Duke of Tolpuddle,’ said Ursula in a small voice.
It took a moment or so for the news to sink into Reggie’s brain cells through the layers of alcohol, but it got there eventually.
‘Tolpuzzle? Tolpuzzle?’ he said. ‘D’you meantershay thish ish the father of that little bashtard?’
‘I say,’ said the Duke, looking about the restaurant in the furtive fashion of an English gentleman, hating any sort of altercation in public. ‘I say, old man, steady on, what? No cause for that sort of language in front of ladies.’
Reggie rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet and waggled an enormous finger under the Duke’s aquiline nose.
‘Don’ you tell me what language to use,’ he said belligerently. ‘Don’ you go giving me advish! Why don’ you go and give advish to that little bashtard fart you shired, if indeed you did shire him, becaushe from where I’m shtanding, you don’ look ash if you could shire a mentally retarded Chihuahua.’
To my relief he sat down again, rather heavily, and for a moment I thought he was going to topple the chair over backwards. With an effort he managed to right it. The Duke had gone a dull red. It must have been irritating to know that Reggie, however badly behaved, was after all the plaintiff and that his son was the guilty party.
‘I think,’ said the Duke, bringing to bear the centuries of aristocratic breeding that was his birthright, ‘I think we ought to sit down and talk about this in a civilized manner, and not descend to vulgar abuse.’
‘Frog’s ovaries,’ said Reggie, loudly and clearly.
‘Reggie, darling, please behave,’ said Ursula.
‘Who?’ asked Reggie, as earnestly as one seeking knowledge from a sage, ‘who does this old fart think he ish, eh?’
‘Do sit down and join us, sir,’ I said heartily.
Ursula gave me a look that would – if I had not been enjoying myself so much ?
?? have withered me root and branch.
‘Thank you,’ said the Duke, icily, ‘but there does not seem to be a chair, and your friend is making it more than apparent that I am, to say the least, de trop.’
‘I’ll get a chair for you,’ I said hospitably, and beckoned the waiter. A chair being procured the Duke sat down rather gingerly, as if expecting it to give way under his weight.
‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ I asked, playing the anxious host.
‘Drinks,’ said Reggie with satisfaction, ‘lots of bloody great drinks . . . gallons and gallons of butts of malmsey . . . you can’t dink without trinking.’
‘Thank you, I will have a small, dry sherry, if I may,’ said the Duke.
‘That little bashtard of yours doesn’t drink,’ said Reggie, ‘all he takes is Coca-Cola and mother’s milk . . . he is an invert . . . an invert . . . an invertebrate if ever I shaw one . . . tototally and completely shpineless!
‘Now look here, Mr Montrose,’ said the Duke, tried beyond endurance, tapping his beautifully manicured fingers on the table, ‘I have no wish to quarrel with you. My reason for being in Venice should not strike you as inimical to your own affairs. If you will just allow me to explain, I think I can clarify the situation and, to some extent, put your mind at ease.’
‘The only way you can put my mind at eash is to get your bloody little son out of my wife’s bed,’ said Reggie, loudly and belligerently.
The Duke threw an embarrassed look round the restaurant. All the Italians, not being used to such uninhibited displays from Anglo-Saxons (particularly the British) were watching us with lively curiosity.
‘I have come to Venice to try to do precisely that,’ said the Duke.
‘What you gonna do?’ asked Reggie. ‘Get him shom one elshes wife?’
‘I propose to deal with him very firmly,’ said the Duke. ‘I dislike this liaison as much, if not more, than you do and it must end.’
‘Don’ you refer to my wife as a lia . . . lia . . . liaison,’ said Reggie, going a shade of angry purple that threatened imminence of cardiac arrest. ‘Who t’hell d’you think you are, referring to my wife as a liaison, eh?’