Hermione rose, grim and resolute.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Painter. I will see that the suit does not come into court.’
‘Eh?’
‘I ought to have told you earlier that Gwynneth Gould is merely my pen-name. I am Hermione Bostock. Sir Aylmer’s daughter.’ Otis was almost too amazed for words.
‘His daughter? Well, fancy that. Well, I’ll be darned. What an extraordinary thing.’
‘I will talk to Father. I will drive down and see him at once.’
‘How would it be if you took me along? In case you needed help.’
‘I shall not need help.’
‘Still, I’d like to be on the spot, to hear the good news as soon as possible.’
‘Very well. While I am seeing Father, you can wait at the inn. So if you are ready, Mr Painter, let us be going. My car is outside.’
It was as they were nearing Guildford at sixty miles an hour, for she was a girl who believed that accelerators were made to be stepped on, that a thought which for some time had been groping about the exterior of Hermione’s mind, like an inebriated householder fumbling with his latch-key, suddenly succeeded in effecting an entrance, and she gave a gasp.
‘Pardon?’ said Otis, who also had been gasping. He was finding his companion’s driving a novel and terrifying experience.
‘Nothing,’ said Hermione. ‘Just something I happened to remember.’
It was the circumstance of her mother’s visit that she had happened to remember, that devoted mother who had now been waiting three hours at her flat to tell her something about Reginald. For an instant she was conscious of a twinge of remorse. Then she told herself that Mother would be all right. She had a comfortable chair and all the illustrated papers.
She pressed her foot on the accelerator, and Otis shut his eyes and commended his soul to God.
11
The afternoon sun, slanting in through the french window of what until the previous night had been Pongo’s bedroom, touched Sally’s face and woke her from the doze into which she had fallen. She rose and stretched herself, yawning.
The french window opened on a balcony, and she eyed it wistfully. It would have been pleasant on so fine a summer day to go and sit on that balcony. But girls who are known, if only slightly, to the police must be prudent. The best she could do was to stand behind the curtain and from this observation post peer out at the green and golden world beyond.
Soon exhausting the entertainment value of a patch of gravel and part of a rhododendron bush, she was about to return to the chaise-longue, when there appeared on the patch of gravel the tall, distinguished figure of Lord Ickenham, walking jauntily and carrying a small suitcase. He passed from view, and a moment later there was a thud as the suitcase fell on the balcony.
Her heart leaped. An intelligent girl, she realized that this must mean clothes. The fifth earl might have his frivolous moments, but he was not the man to throw suitcases on to balconies in a spirit of mere wantonness. She crawled cautiously on all fours and possessed herself of the rich gift.
Her confidence had not been misplaced. It was clothes, and she hastened to put on what she recognized as a white sports dress and red jacket belonging to Lady Ickenham with all the eagerness of a girl who likes to look nice and for some little time has had to get along with a man’s flowered dressing-gown. And it was as she stood examining herself contentedly in the mirror that Lord Ickenham entered.
‘So you got them all right?’ he said. ‘Not a bad shot for a man who has jerked very little since the old soda days. But if you have once jerked soda, you never really lose the knack. I like that red coat. Rather dressy.’
Sally kissed him gratefully.
‘You’re an angel, Uncle Fred. Nobody saw you, I hope?’
‘Not a soul. The enemy’s lines were thin and poorly guarded. Your hostess went to London soon after breakfast, and Mugsy is over at a neighbouring village, trying to sell someone a cow, I understand.’
Sally started.
‘Then why not do it now? Get the bust, I mean.’
‘My dear child, you don’t suppose that idea did not occur to me? My first move on learning that the coast was clear was to make a bee-line for the collection room, only to discover that Mugsy had locked the door and gone off with the key. As I was saying to Pongo last night, there is a streak of low cunning in Mugsy’s nature which one deplores. Still, don’t worry. I’m biding my time. That’s the sort of man I’m, as the song says. I shall arrange everything to your full satisfaction quite shortly.’
‘Says you.’
‘Sally! Don’t tell me you’re losing confidence in me.’
‘Oh, darling Uncle Fred, of course not. Why did I speak those harsh words? Consider them unsaid.’
‘They are already expunged from my memory. Yes, you look charming in that coat. Quite a vision. No wonder Pongo loves you.’
‘Not any more.’
‘More than ever. I was noticing the way his eyes came popping out last night every time they rested on you. Did you ever see a prawn in the mating season? Like that. And one of the last things he said to me was “She looked dashed pretty in that dressing-gown.” With a sort of catch in his voice. That means love.’
‘If he thought I looked pretty in a dressing-gown made for a man of six feet two, it must mean something.’
‘Love, my dear. Love, I tell you. All the old fervour has started gushing up again like a geyser. He worships you. He adores you. He would die for one little rose from your hair. How are conditions at your end?’
‘Oh, I haven’t changed.’
‘You love him still?’
‘I’m crazy about him.’
‘That’s satisfactory. Though odd. I’m very fond of Pongo. In fact, except for my wife and you and my dog, George, I can think of nobody of whom I am fonder. But I can’t understand anyone being crazy about him. How do you do it?’
‘It’s quite easy, bless his precious heart. He’s a baa-lamb.’
‘You see him from that angle?’
‘I always have. A sweet, woolly, baa-lamb that you want to stroke and pet.’
‘Well, you may be right. You know more about baa-lambs than I do. But this is official. If I were a girl and he begged me for one little rose from my hair, I wouldn’t give it him. He’d have a pretty thin time trying to get roses out of me. Still, the great thing is that you love him, because I have an idea that he will very soon be at liberty to pay his addresses to you. This engagement of his can’t last.’
‘You certainly do spread sweetness and light, don’t you, Uncle Fred?’
‘I try to.’
‘Tell me more. I could listen for ever. Why do you think the engagement won’t last?’
‘How can it? What on earth does a girl like Hermione Bostock want to marry Pongo for?’
‘Maybe she likes baa-lambs, too.’
‘Nonsense. I’ve only seen her photograph, but I could tell at a glance that what she needs is a large, solid, worshipping husband of the huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ type, not a metropolitan product like Pongo. Her obvious mate is her cousin, Bill Oakshott, who has been devoted to her for years. But he’s too mild in his methods. He doesn’t tell his love, but lets concealment like a worm i’ the bud feed on his damask cheek. You can’t run a business that way. I intend to have a very serious talk with young William Oakshott next time I see him. In fact, I’ll go and try to find him now.’
‘No, don’t go yet. I want to tell you about Pongo.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s worried to death, the poor pet. My heart aches for him. He was in here not long ago, and he just sat in a chair and groaned.’
‘You’re sure he wasn’t singing?’
‘I don’t think so. Would he have buried his face in his hands, if he had been singing?’
‘No. You’re perfectly right. That is the acid test. I have heard Pongo sing on several occasions at our village concert, and it is impossible to mistake the symptoms. He
sticks his chin up and throws his head back and lets it go in the direction of the ceiling at an angle of about forty-five. And very unpleasant it is, especially when the song is “Oh, My Dolores, Queen of the Eastern Sea”, as too often happens. So he groaned, did he? Why?’
‘He doesn’t like this idea of pushing the policeman into the duck pond.’
‘Doesn’t like it? Not when he knows it’s going to bring happiness and wedding bells to the divine Bean?’
‘The impression he gave me was that he wasn’t thinking much about the divine Bean and her wedding bells.’
‘Looking at the thing principally in the light of how it was going to affect good old Twistleton?’ Lord Ickenham sighed. ‘Young men are not what they were in my day, Sally. We were all Galahads then. Damsels in distress had merely to press a button, and we would race up with our ears flapping, eager to do their behest. Well, we can’t have him backing out. We owe a debt of honour to Miss Bean, and it must be paid. And, dash it, what’s he making such heavy weather about? It isn’t as if this duck pond were miles away across difficult country.’
A strange look had come into Sally’s face, the sort of resolute look you might have surprised on the faces of Joan of Arc or Boadicea.
‘Where is it?’ she asked. ‘He didn’t tell me.’
‘Outside the front gate. A mere step. And I was speaking to Miss Bean this morning, and she tells me that when Potter arrives there on his beat he always stands beside it for an appreciable space of time, spitting and, one hopes, thinking of her. What simpler and more agreeable task could there be than to saunter up behind a spitting policeman, at a moment when he is wrapped in thought, and push him into a pond? To further the interests of a girl like La Bean, the finest housemaid that ever flicked a duster, I would have pushed twenty policemen into twenty ponds when I was Pongo’s age.’
‘But Pongo has such a rare, sensitive nature.’
‘So had I a rare, sensitive nature. It was the talk of New York. Well, if the thing is to be done today, he ought to be starting. It is at just about this hour, I am informed, that Potter rolls along. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. He drifted out.’
‘I must find him at once.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Sally.
The resolute expression on her face had become more noticeable than ever. In addition to looking like Joan of Arc and Boadicea, she could now have been mistaken in a dim light for Jael, the wife of Heber, and Lord Ickenham, pausing on his way to the door, was impressed and vaguely disturbed.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You have a strained air. You aren’t worrying about Pongo?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘But I keep assuring you that the task before him is both simple and agreeable.’
‘Not for Pongo. He’s a baa-lamb. I told you that before.’
‘But why should the circumstance of being a baa-lamb unfit a man for pushing policemen into ponds?’
‘I don’t know. But it does. I’ve studied this thing of pushing policemen into ponds, Uncle Fred, and I’m convinced that what you need, to get the best results, is a girl whose clothes the policeman tore off on the previous night.’
‘Good God, Sally! You don’t mean —?‘
‘Yes, I do. My mind is made up. I’m going to pinch hit for Pongo, and, if it interests you to know it, it is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done. Goodbye, Uncle Fred. See you later.’
She disappeared on to the balcony, and a scrabbling sound told Lord Ickenham that she was descending the water pipe. He went out, and was in time to see her vanish into the bushes on the other side of the terrace. For some moments he stood there staring after her, then with a little sigh, the sigh too often extorted from Age by the spectacle of Head-strong Youth doing its stuff, passed thoughtfully from the room. Making his way downstairs, still pensive, he reached the hall.
Bill Oakshott was there, balancing a walking stick on the tip of his nose.
That the young squire of Ashenden in essaying this equilibristic feat had not been animated by a mere spirit of frivolity, but was endeavouring rather, as men will in times of mental stress, to divert his thoughts from graver issues, was made clear by a certain touch of the careworn in his manner. It is not easy to look careworn when you are balancing a walking stick on the tip of your nose, but Bill Oakshott contrived to do so.
At the sight of Lord Ickenham he brightened. Ever since he had escorted Lady Bostock to Wockley Junction that morning he had been wanting to see and seek counsel from one on whose judgment he had come to rely, and owing to the fact of having been obliged to fulfil a long-standing luncheon engagement with friends who lived on the Wockley road he had had no opportunity of approaching him earlier.
‘Oh, there you are,’ he said. ‘Fine.’
Lord Ickenham reluctantly put Sally’s affairs to one side for the time being. The sight of this massive youth had reminded him that he had a pep talk to deliver.
‘The word “fine”,’ he replied, ‘is happily chosen, for I, too, have been looking forward to this encounter. I want to speak to you, Bill Oakshott.’
‘I want to speak to you.’
‘I have much to say.’
‘So have I much to say.
‘Well, if it comes to a duet, I’ll bet I can talk louder and quicker than you, and I am willing to back this opinion with notes, cash or lima beans. However, as I am your guest, I suppose courtesy demands that I yield the floor. Proceed.’
Bill marshalled his thoughts.
‘Well, it’s like this. After breakfast this morning, I drove my aunt to Wockley to catch the express to London. I was feeling a bit tired after being up so late last night, so I didn’t talk as we tooled along, just kept an eye on the road and thought of this and that.’ Lord Ickenham interrupted him.
‘Skip all this part. I shall be able to read it later, no doubt, in your autobiography, in the chapter headed “Summer Morning Outings With My Aunt”. Spring to the point.’
‘Well, what I was going to say was that I was keeping an eye on the road and thinking of this and that, when she suddenly said “Dipsomaniac”.’
‘Why did she call you a dipsomaniac?’
‘She didn’t. It turned out she was talking about Pongo.’
‘Pongo, egad? Was she, indeed?’
‘Yes. She said “Dipsomaniac”. And I said “Eh?” And she said “He’s a dipsomaniac.” And I said “Who’s a dipsomaniac?” And she said “Reginald Twistleton is a dipsomaniac. Your uncle says he has not been sober since he got here.”‘
Lord Ickenham drew in his breath with a little hiss of admiration.
‘Masterly!’ he said. ‘Once again, Bill Oakshott, I must pay a marked tribute to your narrative gifts. I never met a man who could tell a story better. Come clean, my boy. You are Sinclair Lewis, are you not? Well, I’m convinced you’re someone. So your aunt said “Dipsomaniac”, and you said “Eh?” and she said … and so on and so forth, concluding with this fearless exposé of Pongo. Very interesting. Did she mention on what she based the charge?’
‘Oh, rather. Apparently she and Uncle Aylmer found him swigging whisky in the drawing-room.’
‘I would not attach too much importance to that. Many of our noblest men swig whisky in drawing-rooms. I do myself.’
‘But not all night. Well, you might say all night. What I mean is, I found Pongo in the drawing-room, swigging away, at about one o’clock this morning, and my aunt and uncle appear to have found him there, still swigging, at half-past two. That makes one and a half hours. Give him say half an hour before I came in and you get two hours of solid swigging. And after my aunt and uncle left he must have started swigging again. Because he was unquestionably stinko after breakfast.’
‘I decline to believe that anyone could get stinko at breakfast.’
‘I didn’t say he did get stinko at breakfast. You’re missing the point. My theory is that he swigged all night, got stinko round about six a.m. and continued stinko til
l the incident occurred.’
‘To what incident do you allude?’
‘It happened just after breakfast. My aunt was waiting for me to bring the car round, and Uncle Aylmer made some unpleasant cracks about the hat she was wearing. So she went up to her room to get another, and as she reached the door she heard someone moving about inside. When she went in, there was nobody to be seen, and then suddenly there came a sneeze from the wardrobe, and there was Pongo, crouching on the floor.’
‘She was sure?’
‘Sure?’
‘It wasn’t a shoe or a bit of fluff?’
‘No, it was Pongo. She says he smiled weakly and said he had looked in to borrow her lipstick. He must have been as tight as an owl. Because, apart from anything else, a glance at Aunt Emily should have told him she hasn’t got a lipstick. And what I’ve been trying to make up my mind about is, oughtn’t Hermione to be warned? Isn’t it a bit thick to allow her to breeze gaily into a lifelong union with a chap who’s going to spend his married life sitting up all night getting stinko in the drawing-room? I don’t see how a wife could possibly be happy under such conditions.’
‘She might feel rather at a loose end, might she not? But you are misjudging Pongo in considering him a non-stop swigger. As a general thing he is quite an abstemious young man. Only in exceptional circumstances does he go on anything which a purist would call a bender. At the moment he is under a severe nervous strain.’
‘Why?’
‘For some reason he always is when we visit a house together. My presence — it is difficult to explain it — seems to do something to him.’
‘Then you don’t feel that Hermione ought to be told?’
‘I will have to think it over. But,’ said Lord Ickenham, fixing his young friend with a penetrating eye, ‘there is something she must be told — without delay, and by you, Bill Oakshott.’
‘Eh?’
‘And that is that you love her and would make her yours.’
‘Eh?’
‘Fight against this tendency to keep saying “Eh.” You do love her, do you not? You would make her yours, wouldn’t you? I have it from an authoritative source that you have been thinking along those lines for years and years.’