Georgie had dined at home that night, and working at a crossword puzzle was amazed to see how late it was. He had pored long over a map of South America, trying to find a river of seven letters with P T in the middle, but he determined to do no more at it to-night.
‘The tarsome thing,’ he said, ‘if I could get that, I'm sure it would give me thirty-one across.’
He strolled to the window and pushed aside the blind. It was a moonlit night with a high wind and a few scudding clouds. Just as he was about to let the blind drop again he saw a reddish light in the sky, immediately above his tall yew-hedge, and wondered what it was. His curiosity combined with the fact that a breath of air was always pleasant before going to bed, led him to open the front-door and look out. He gave a wild gasp of dismay and horror.
The windows of the Museum were vividly illuminated by a red glow. Smoke poured out of one which apparently was broken, and across the smoke shot tongues of flame. He bounded to his telephone, and with great presence of mind rang up the fire-station at Blitton. ‘Riseholme,’ he called. ‘House on fire: send engine at once.’ He ran into his garden again, and seeing a light still in the drawing-room next door (Daisy was getting some sulphurous expressions from Abfou) tapped at the pane. ‘The Museum's burning,’ he cried, and set off across the green to the scene of the fire.
By this time others had seen it too, and were coming out of their houses, looking like little black ants on a red table-cloth. The fire had evidently caught strong hold, and now a piece of the roof fell in, and the flames roared upwards. In the building itself there was no apparatus for extinguishing fire, nor, if there had been, could any one have reached it. A hose was fetched from the Ambermere Arms, but that was not long enough, and there was nothing to be done except wait for the arrival of the fire-engine from Blitton. Luckily the Museum stood well apart from other houses, and there seemed little danger of the fire spreading.
Soon the bell of the approaching engine was heard, but already it was clear that nothing could be saved. The rest of the roof crashed in, a wall tottered and fell. The longer hose was adjusted, and the stream of water directed through the windows, now here, now there, where the fire was fiercest, and clouds of steam mingled with the smoke. But all efforts to save anything were absolutely vain: all that could be done, as the fire burned itself out, was to quench the glowing embers of the conflagration… As he watched, three words suddenly repeated themselves in Georgie's mind. ‘Fire, water, moonlight,’ he said aloud in an awed tone… Victorious Vittoria!
The committee, of course, met next morning, and Robert as financial adviser was specially asked to attend. Georgie arrived at Mrs Boucher's house where the meeting was held before Daisy and Robert got there, and Mrs Boucher could hardly greet him, so excited was she.
‘I call it most remarkable,’ she said. ‘Dog and angry old woman never convinced me, but this is beyond anything. Fire, water, moonlight! It's prophecy, nothing less than prophecy. I shall believe anything Vittoria says, for the future. As for Abfou – well –’
She tactfully broke off at Daisy's and Robert's entrance.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘And good morning, Mr Robert. This is a disaster, indeed. All Mr Georgie's sketches, and the walking-sticks, and the mittens and the spit. Nothing left at all.’
Robert seemed amazingly cheerful.
‘I don't see it as such a disaster,’ he said. ‘Lucky I had those insurances executed. We get two thousand pounds from the Company, of which five hundred goes to Colonel Boucher for his barn – I mean the Museum.’
‘Well, that's something,’ said Mrs Boucher. ‘And the rest? I never could understand about insurances. They've always been a sealed book to me.’
‘Well, the rest belongs to those who put the money up to equip the Museum,’ he said. ‘In proportion, of course, to the sums they advanced. Altogether four hundred and fifty pounds was put up, you and Daisy and Georgie each put in fifty. The rest, well, I advanced the rest.’
There were some rapid and silent calculations made. It seemed rather hard that Robert should get such a lot. Business always seemed to favour the rich. But Robert didn't seem the least ashamed of that. He treated it as a perfect matter of course.
‘The – the treasures in the Museum almost all belonged to the committee,’ he went on. ‘They were given to the Museum, which was the property of the committee. Quite simple. If it had been a loan collection now – well, we shouldn't be finding quite such a bright lining to our cloud. I'll manage the insurance business for you, and pay you pleasant little cheques all round. The Company, no doubt, will ask a few questions as to the origin of the fire.’
‘Ah, there's a mystery for you,’ said Mrs Boucher. ‘The oil-stoves were always put out in the evening, after burning all day, and how a fire broke out in the middle of the night beats me.’
Daisy's mouth twitched. Then she pulled herself together.
‘Most mysterious,’ she said, and looked carelessly out of the window to where the debris of the Museum was still steaming. Simultaneously, Georgie gave a little start, and instantly changed the subject, rapping on the table.
‘There's one thing we've forgotten,’ said he. ‘It wasn't entirely our property. Queen Charlotte's mittens were only on loan.’
The faces of the committee fell slightly.
‘A shilling or two,’ said Mrs Boucher hopefully. ‘I'm only glad we didn't have Pug as well. Lucia got us out of that!’
Instantly the words of Vittoria about the dog and the angry old woman, and fire and water and moonlight occurred to everybody. Most of all they occurred to Daisy, and there was a slight pause, which might have become awkward if it had continued. It was broken by the entry of Mrs Boucher's parlourmaid, who carried a letter in a large square envelope with a deep mourning border, and a huge coronet on the flap.
‘Addressed to the Museum committee, ma'am,’ she said.
Mrs Boucher opened it, and her face flushed.
‘Well, she's lost no time,’ she said. ‘Lady Ambermere. I think I had better read it.’
‘Please,’ said everybody in rather strained voices.
Mrs Boucher read:
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMITTEE OF RISE-HOLME MUSEUM
Your little Museum, I hear, has been totally destroyed with all its contents by fire. I have to remind you therefore that the mittens of her late Majesty Queen Charlotte were there on loan, as lent by me. No equivalent in money can really make up for the loss of so irreplaceable a relic, but I should be glad to know, as soon as possible, what compensation you propose to offer me.
The figure that has been suggested to me is £50 and an early cheque would oblige.
Faithfully yours,
CORNELIA AMBERMERE
A dead silence succeeded, broken by Mrs Boucher as soon as her indignation allowed her to speak.
‘I would sooner,’ she said, ‘go to law about it, and appeal if it went against us, and carry it up to the House of Lords, than pay £50 for those rubbishy things. Why, the whole contents of the Museum weren't worth more than – well, leave it at that.’
The figure at which the contents of the Museum had been insured floated into everybody's mind, and it was more dignified to ‘leave it at that’, and not let the imagination play over the probable end of Mrs Boucher's sentence.
The meeting entirely concurred, but nobody, not even Robert, knew what to do next.
‘I propose offering her £10,’ said Georgie at last, ‘and I call that handsome.’
‘Five,’ said Daisy, like an auction reversed.
Robert rubbed the top of his head, as was his custom in perplexity.
‘Difficult to know what to do,’ he said. ‘I don't know of any standard of valuation for the old clothes of deceased queens.’
‘Two,’ said Mrs Boucher, continuing the auction, ‘and that's a fancy price. What would Pug have been, I wonder, if we're asked fifty pounds for two old mittens. A pound each, I say, and that's a monstrous price. And if you want to kn
ow who suggested to Lady Ambermere to ask fifty, I can tell you, and her name was Cornelia Ambermere.’
This proposal of Lady Ambermere's rather damped the secret exaltation of the committee, though it stirred a pleasant feeling of rage. Fifty pounds was a paltry sum compared to what they would receive from the Insurance Company, but the sense of the attempt to impose on them caused laudable resentment. They broke up, to consider separately what was to be done, and to poke about the ashes of the Museum, all feeling very rich. The rest of Riseholme were there, of course, also poking about, Piggy and Goosie skipping over smouldering heaps of ashes, and Mrs Antrobus, and the Vicar and the Curate, and Mr Stratton. Only Lucia was absent, and Georgie, after satisfying himself that nothing whatever remained of his sketches, popped in to The Hurst.
Lucia was in the music-room reading the paper. She had heard, of course, about the total destruction of the Museum, that ridiculous invention of Daisy and Abfou, but not a shadow of exultation betrayed itself.
‘My dear, too sad about the Museum,’ she said. ‘All your beautiful things. Poor Daisy, too, her idea.’
Georgie explained about the silver lining to the cloud.
‘But what's so marvellous,’ he said, ‘is Vittoria. Fire, water, moonlight. I never heard of anything so extraordinary, and I thought it only meant the damp on the walls, and the new oil-stoves. It was prophetical, Lucia, and Mrs Boucher thinks so too.’
Lucia still showed no elation. Oddly enough, she had thought it meant damp and oil-stoves, too, for she did remember what Georgie had forgotten that he had told her just before the epiphany of Vittoria. But now this stupendous fulfilment of Vittoria's communication of which she had never dreamed, had happened. As for Abfou, it was a mere waste of time to give another thought to poor dear malicious Abfou. She sighed.
‘Yes, Georgie, it was strange,’ she said. ‘That was our first sitting, wasn't it? When I got so drowsy and felt so queer. Very strange indeed: convincing, I think. But whether I shall go on sitting now, I hardly know.’
‘Oh, but you must,’ said Georgie. ‘After all the rubbish –’
Lucia held up a finger.
‘Now, Georgie, don't be unkind,’ she said. ‘Let us say, “Poor Daisy”, and leave it there. That's all. Any other news?’
Georgie retailed the monstrous demands of Lady Ambermere.
‘And, as Robert says, it's so hard to know what to offer her,’ he concluded.
Lucia gave the gayest of laughs.
‘Georgie, what would poor Riseholme do without me?’ she said. ‘I seem to be made to pull you all out of difficulties. That mismanaged golf club, Pug, and now there's this. Well, shall I be kind and help you once more?’
She turned over the leaves of her paper.
‘Ah, that's it,’ she said. ‘Listen, Georgie. Sale at Pemberton's auction-rooms in Knightsbridge yesterday. Various items. Autograph of Crippen the murderer. Dear me, what horrid minds people have! Mother-of-pearl brooch belonging to the wife of the poet Mr Robert Montgomery; a pair of razors belonging to Carlyle, all odds and ends of trumpery, you see… Ah yes, here it is. Pair of riding gaiters, in good condition, belonging to His Majesty King George the Fourth. That seems a sort of guide, doesn't it, to the value of Queen Charlotte's mittens. And what do you think they fetched? A terrific sum, Georgie; fifty pounds is nowhere near it. They fetched ten shillings and sixpence.’
‘No!’ said Georgie. ‘And Lady Ambermere asked fifty pounds!’
Lucia laughed again.
‘Well, Georgie, I suppose I must be good-natured,’ she said. I'll draft a little letter for your committee to Lady Ambermere. How you all bully me and work me to death! Why, only yesterday I said to Pepino that those months we spent in London seemed a holiday compared to what I have to do here. Dear old Riseholme! I'm sure I'm very glad to help it out of its little holes.’
Georgie gave a gasp of admiration. It was but a month or two ago that all Riseholme rejoiced when Abfou called her a snob, and now here they all were again (with the exception of Daisy) going to her for help and guidance in all those employments and excitements in which Riseholme revelled. Golf competitions and bridge tournaments, and duets, and real séances and deliverance from Lady Ambermere, and above all, the excitement supplied by her personality.
‘You're too wonderful,’ he said, ‘indeed, I don't know what we should do without you.’
Lucia got up.
‘Well, I'll scribble a little letter for you,’ she said, ‘bringing in the price of George the Fourth's gaiters in good condition. What shall we – I mean what shall you offer? I think you must be generous, Georgie, and not calculate the exact difference between the value of a pair of gaiters in good condition belonging to a king, and that of a pair of motheaten mittens belonging to a queen consort. Offer her the same; in fact, I think I should enclose a treasury note for ten shillings and six stamps. That will be more than generous, it will be munificent.’
Lucia sat down at her writing-table, and after a few minutes’ thought, scribbled a couple of sides of notepaper in that neat handwriting that bore no resemblance to Vittoria‘s. She read them through, and approved.
‘I think that will settle it,’ she said. ‘If there is any further bother with the Vecchia, let me know. There's one more thing, Georgie, and then let us have a little music. How do you think the fire broke out?’
Georgie felt her penetrating eye was on him. She had not asked that question quite idly. He tried to answer it quite idly.
‘It's most mysterious,’ he said. ‘The oil-stoves are always put out quite early in the evening, and lit again next morning. The boy says he put them out as usual.’
Lucia's eye was still on him.
‘Georgie, how do you think the fire broke out?’ she repeated.
This time Georgie felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Had Lucia the power of divination?…
‘I don't know,’ he said. ‘Have you any idea about it?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucia. ‘And so have you. I'll tell you my idea if you like. I saw our poor misguided Daisy coming out of the Museum close on seven o'clock last night.’
‘So did I,’ said Georgie in a whisper.
‘Well, the oil-stoves must have been put out long before that,’ said Lucia. ‘Mustn't they?’
‘Yes,’ said Georgie.
‘Then how was it that there was a light coming out of the Museum windows? Not much of a light, but a little light, I saw it. What do you make of that?’
‘I don't know,’ said Georgie.
Lucia held up a censuring finger.
‘Georgie, you must be very dull this morning,’ she said. ‘What I make of it is that our poor Daisy lit the oil-stoves again. And then probably in her fumbling way, she spilt some oil. Something of the sort, anyhow. In fact, I'm afraid Daisy burned down the Museum.’
There was a terrible pause.
‘What are we to do?’ said Georgie.
Lucia laughed.
‘Do?’ she said. ‘Nothing, except never know anything about it. We know quite well that poor Daisy didn't do it on purpose. She hasn't got the pluck or the invention to be an incendiary. It was only her muddling, meddling ways.’
‘But the insurance money?’ said Georgie.
‘What about it? The fire was an accident, whether Daisy confessed what she had done or not. Poor Daisy! We must be nice to Daisy, Georgie. Her golf, her Abfou! Such disappointments. I think I will ask her to be my partner in the foursome for the Lucas Cup. And perhaps if there was another place on the golf committee, we might propose her for it.’
Lucia sighed, smiling wistfully.
‘A pity she is not a little wiser,’ she said.
Lucia sat looking wistful for a moment. Then to Georgie's immense surprise she burst out into peals of laughter.
‘My dear, what is the matter?’ said Georgie.
Lucia was helpless for a little, but she gasped and recovered and wiped her eyes.
‘Georgie, you are dull this morning!’ she said. ‘Don't
you see? Poor Daisy's meddling has made the reputation of Vittoria and crumpled up Abfou. Fire, water, moonlight: Vittoria's prophecy. Vittoria owes it all to poor Daisy!’
Georgie's laughter set Lucia off again, and Pepino coming in found both at it.
‘Good morning, Georgie,’ he said. ‘Terrible about the Museum. A sad loss. What are you laughing at?’
‘Nothing, caro,’ said Lucia. ‘Just a little joke of Daisy's. Not worth repeating, but it amused Georgie and me. Come, Georgie, half an hour's good practice of celestial Mozartino. We have been lazy lately.’
E. F. Benson, Lucia Rising
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