Singing in the Shrouds

  Miss Abbott sat by herself on a settee against the wall. She was reading. The hands that held her neatly-covered book were large and muscular. Her face, he reflected, would have been not unhandsome if it had been only slightly less inflexible and if there had not been the suggestion of—what was it?—harshness?—about the jaw.

  As for Aubyn Dale, there he was, with Mrs Dillington-Blick who had set herself up with him hard-by the little bar. When she saw Alleyn she beckoned gaily to him. She was busy establishing a coterie. As Alleyn joined them Aubyn Dale laid a large beautifully tended hand over hers and burst into a peal of all-too-infectious laughter. ‘What a perfectly marvellous person you are!’ he cried boyishly and appealed to Alleyn. ‘Isn’t she wonderful?’

  Alleyn agreed fervently and offered them liqueurs.

  ‘You take the words out of my mouth, dear boy,’ Dale exclaimed.

  ‘I oughtn’t to!’ Mrs Dillington-Blick protested. ‘I’m on an inquisitorial diet!’ She awarded her opulence a downward glance and Alleyn an upward one. She raised her eyebrows. ‘My dear!’ she cried. ‘You can see for yourself. I oughtn’t.’

  ‘But you’re going to,’ he rejoined and the drinks were served by the ubiquitous Dennis who had appeared behind the bar. Mrs Dillington-Blick, with a meaning look at Dale, said that if she put on another ounce she would never get into her Jolyon swimsuit and they began to talk about his famous session on commercial television. It appeared that when he visited America and did a specially sponsored half-hour, he had been supported by a great mass of superb models all wearing Jolyon swimsuits. His hands eloquently sketched their curves. He leant towards Mrs Dillington-Blick and whispered. Alleyn noticed the slight puffiness under his eyes and the blurring weight of flesh beneath the inconsiderable jaw which formerly his beard had hidden. ‘Is this the face,’ Alleyn asked himself, ‘that launched a thousand hips?’ and wondered why.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten the flowers?’ Mrs Dillington-Blick asked Dennis and he assured her that he hadn’t.

  ‘As soon as I’ve a spare sec I’ll pop away and fetch them,’ he promised and smiled archly at Alleyn. ‘They’re all chosen and ready.’

  As Aubyn Dale’s conversation with Mrs Dillington-Blick tended to get more and more confidential Alleyn felt himself at liberty to move away. At the far end of the lounge Mr Merryman was talking excitedly to Father Jourdain who had begun to look uncomfortable. He caught Alleyn’s eye and nodded pleasantly. Alleyn dodged round the Cuddys and Mr McAngus and bypassed Miss Abbott. There was a settee near the far end but as he made for it Father Jourdain said: ‘Do come and join us. These chairs are much more comfortable and we’d like to introduce ourselves.’

  Alleyn said: ‘I should be delighted,’ and introductions were made. Mr Merryman looked sharply at him over the tops of his spectacles and said: ‘How do you do, sir.’ He added astonishingly: ‘I perceived that you were effecting an escape from what was no doubt an excruciating situation.’

  ‘I?’ Alleyn said. ‘I don’t quite—’

  ‘The sight,’ Mr Merryman continued in none too quiet a voice, ‘of yonder popinjay ruffling his dubious plumage at the bar is singularly distasteful to me and no doubt intolerable to you.’

  ‘Oh, come, now!’ Father Jourdain protested.

  Alleyn said: ‘He’s not as bad as all that, is he?’

  ‘You know who he is, of course.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Father Jourdain. ‘We know. Ssh!’

  ‘Have you witnessed his weekly exhibitions of indecent exposure on the television?’

  ‘I’m not much of a viewer,’ Alleyn said.

  ‘Ah! You show your good judgment. As an underpaid pedagogue it has been my hideous lot to sit on Tuesday evenings among upper middle-class adolescents of low intelligence, “looking in” (loathsome phrase) at this man’s antics. Let me tell you what he does, sir. He advertises women’s bathing clothes and in another programme he incites—arrogant presumption—he incites members of the public to bring their troubles to him! And the fools do! Conceive!’ Mr Merryman invited. ‘Picture to yourself! A dupe is discovered. Out of focus, unrecognizable, therefore. Facing this person and us, remorselessly illuminated, and elevated in blasphemous (you will appreciate that in clerical company I use the adjective advisedly) in blasphemous supremacy is or was the countenance you see before you, but garnished with a hirsute growth which lent it a wholly spurious distinction.’

  Alleyn glanced with amusement at Mr Merryman and thought what bad luck it was for him that he was unable to give visual expression to his spleen. For all the world he looked like an indignant baby.

  ‘If you will believe me,’ he continued angrily whispering, ‘a frightful process known as “talking it over” now intervenes. The subject discloses to That Person and to however many thousands of listening observers there may be, some intimate predicament of her (it is, I repeat, usually a woman) private life. He then propounds a solution, is thanked, applauded, preens himself and is presented with a fresh sacrifice. Now! What do you think of that!’ whispered Mr Merryman.

  ‘I think it all sounds very embarrassing,’ Alleyn said.

  Father Jourdain made a comically despairing face at him. ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he suggested. ‘You were saying, Mr Merryman, that the psychopathic murderer—’

  ‘You heard of course,’ Mr Merryman remorselessly interjected, ‘what an exhibition he made of himself at a later assignment. “Lady Agatha’s umbilicus globular”,’ he quoted, and broke into a shrill laugh.

  ‘You know,’ Father Jourdain remarked, ‘I’m on holiday and honestly don’t want to start throwing my priestly weight about.’ Before Mr Merryman could reply he raised his voice a little and added: To go back, as somebody, was it Humpty Dumpty? said, to the last conversation but one: I’m immensely interested in what you were saying about criminals of the Heath type. What was the book you recommended? By an American psychiatrist, I think you said.’

  Mr Merryman muttered huffily: ‘I don’t recollect.’

  Alleyn asked: ‘Not, by any chance, The Show of Violence, by Frederick Wertham?’

  Father Jourdain turned to him with unconcealed relief. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You’re an addict, too, and a learned one, evidently.’

  ‘Not I. The merest amateur. Why, by the way, is everybody so fascinated by crimes of violence?’ He looked at Father Jourdain. ‘What do you think, sir?’

  Father Jourdain hesitated and Mr Merryman cut in.

  ‘I am persuaded,’ he said, ‘that people read about murder as an alternative to committing it.’

  ‘A safety valve?’ Alleyn suggested.

  ‘A conversion. The so-called anti-social urge is fed into a socially acceptable channel: we thus commit our crimes of violence at a safe remove. We are all,’ Mr Merryman said tranquilly folding his hands over his stomach, ‘savages at heart.’ He seemed to have recovered his good humour.

  ‘Do you agree?’ Alleyn asked Father Jourdain.

  ‘I fancy,’ he rejoined, ‘that Mr Merryman is talking about something I call original sin. If he is, I do of course agree.’

  An accidental silence had fallen on the little assembly. Into this silence with raised voice, as a stone into a pool, Alleyn dropped his next remark.

  ‘Take for instance, this strangler—the man who “says it with”—what are they? Roses? What, do you suppose, is behind all that?’

  The silence continued for perhaps five seconds.

  Miss Abbott said: ‘Not roses. Hyacinths. Flowers of several kinds.’

  She had lifted her gaze from her book and fixed it on Mrs Dillington-Blick. ‘Hot-house flowers,’ she said. ‘It being winter. The first time it was snowdrops, I believe.’

  ‘And the second,’ Mr Merryman said, ‘hyacinths.’

  Aubyn Dale cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah yes!’ Alleyn said. ‘I remember now. Hyacinths.’

  ‘Isn’t it awful?’ Mrs Cuddy gloated.

  ‘Shoc
king,’ Mr Cuddy agreed. ‘Hyacinths! Fancy!’ Mr McAngus said gently: ‘Poor things.’

  Mr Merryman with the falsely innocent air of a child that knows it’s being naughty asked loudly: ‘Hasn’t there been something on television about these flowers? Something rather ludicrous? Of what can I be thinking?’

  Everybody avoided looking at Aubyn Dale, but not even Father Jourdain found anything to say.

  It was at this juncture that Dennis staggered into the room with a vast basket of flowers which he set down on the central table.

  ‘Hyacinths!’ Mrs Cuddy shrilly pointed out. ‘What a coincidence!’

  IV

  It was one of those naïve arrangements which can give nothing but pleasure to the person who receives them unless, of course, that person is allergic to scented flowers. The hyacinths were rooted and blooming in a mossy bed. They trembled slightly with the motion of the ship, shook out their incongruous fragrance and filled the smoking-room with reminiscences of the more expensive kinds of shops, restaurants and women.

  Dennis fell back a pace to admire them.

  ‘Thank you, Dennis,’ Mrs Dillington-Blick said.

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Mrs Dillington-Blick,’ he rejoined. ‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’

  He retired behind the bar. The passengers stared at the growing flowers and the flowers, quivering, laid upon them a further burden of sweetness.

  Mrs Dillington-Blick explained hurriedly: ‘There isn’t room for all one’s flowers in one’s cabin. I thought we’d enjoy them together.’

  Alleyn said: ‘But what a charming gesture.’ And was barely supported by a dilatory murmur.

  Jemima agreed quickly: ‘Isn’t it? Thank you so much, they’re quite lovely.’

  Tim Makepiece murmured: ‘What nice manners you’ve got, Grandmama.’

  ‘I do hope,’ Mrs Dillington-Blick said, ‘that nobody finds the scent too much. Me, I simply wallow in it.’ She turned to Aubyn Dale. He rejoined: ‘But of course. You’re so wonderfully exotic.’ Mr Merryman snorted.

  Mrs Cuddy said loudly: ‘I’m afraid we’re going to be spoilsports: Mr Cuddy can’t stay in the same room with flowers that have a heavy perfume. He’s allergic to them.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ Mrs Dillington-Blick cried. ‘Then, of course, they must go.’ She waved her hands helplessly.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need for that,’ Mrs Cuddy announced. ‘We don’t want to make things uncomfortable. We were going to take a turn on deck anyway. Weren’t we, dear?’

  Alleyn asked: ‘Do you suffer from hay fever, Mr Cuddy?’

  Mrs Cuddy answered for her husband. ‘Not exactly hay fever, is it, dear? He just comes over queer.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ Alleyn murmured.

  ‘Well, it’s quite awkward sometimes.’

  ‘At weddings and funerals for instance it must be.’

  ‘Well on our silver wedding some of the gentlemen from Mr Cuddy’s Lodge brought us a gorgeous mixed booky of hothouse flowers and he had to say how much he appreciated it and all the time he was feeling peculiar and when they’d gone he said: “I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s me or the booky” and we live opposite a hospital so he took them across and had to go for a long walk afterwards to get over it, didn’t you, dear?’

  ‘Your silver wedding,’ Alleyn said, and smiled at Mrs Cuddy. ‘You’re not going to tell us you’ve been married twenty-five years!’

  ‘Twenty-five years and eleven days to be exact. Haven’t we, dear?’

  ‘That’s correct, dear.’

  ‘He’s turning colour,’ Mrs Cuddy said, exhibiting her husband with an air of triumph. ‘Come on, love. Walky-walky.’

  Mr Cuddy seemed unable to look away from Mrs Dillington-Blick. He said: ‘I don’t notice the perfume too heavy. It isn’t affecting me.’

  ‘That’s what you say,’ his wife replied, ominously bluff. ‘You come into the fresh air, my man.’ She took his arm and turned him towards the glass doors that gave on to the deck. She opened them. Cold, salt air poured into the heated room and the sound of the sea and of the ship’s engines. The Cuddys went out. Mr Cuddy shut the doors and could be seen looking back into the room. His wife removed him and they walked away, their grey hair lifting in the wind.

  ‘They’ll die of cold!’ Jemima exclaimed. ‘No coats or hats.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Mrs Dillington-Blick lamented and appealed in turn to the men. ‘And I expect it’s all my fault.’ They murmured severally.

  Mr McAngus, who had peeped into the passage, confided: ‘It’s all right. They’ve come in by the side door and I think they’ve gone to their cabin.’ He sniffed timidly at the flowers, gave a small apologetic laugh and made a little bobbing movement to and from Mrs Dillington-Blick. ‘I think we’re all most awfully lucky,’ he ventured. He then went out into the passage, putting on his hat as he did so.

  ‘That poor creature dyes its hair,’ Mr Merryman observed calmly.

  ‘Oh come!’ Father Jourdain protested and gave Alleyn a helpless look. ‘I seem,’ he said under his breath, ‘to be saying nothing but “Oh, come.” A maddening observation.’

  Mrs Dillington-Blick blossomed at Mr Merryman: ‘Aren’t you naughty!’ She laughed and appealed to Aubyn Dale: ‘Not true. Is it?’

  ‘I honestly can’t see, you know, that if he does dye his hair, it’s anybody’s business but his,’ Dale said, and gave Mr Merryman his celebrated smile. ‘Can you?’ he said.

  ‘I entirely agree with you,’ Mr Merryman rejoined, grinning like a monkey. ‘I must apologize. In point of fact I abominate the public elucidation of private foibles.’

  Dale turned pale and said nothing.

  ‘Let us talk about flowers instead,’ Mr Merryman suggested and beamed through his spectacles upon the company.

  Mrs Dillington-Blick at once began to do so. She was supported, unexpectedly, by Miss Abbott. Evidently they were both experienced gardeners. Dale listened with a stationary smile. Alleyn saw him order himself a second double brandy.

  ‘I suppose,’ Alleyn remarked generally, ‘everybody has a favourite flower.’

  Mrs Dillington-Blick moved into a position from which she could see him. ‘Hallo, you!’ she exclaimed jollily. ‘But of course they have. Mine’s magnolias.’

  ‘What are yours?’ Tim Makepiece asked Jemima.

  ‘Distressingly obvious—roses.’

  ‘Lilies,’ Father Jourdain smiled, ‘which may also be obvious.’

  ‘Easter?’ Miss Abbott barked.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What about you?’ Alleyn asked Tim.

  ‘The hop,’ he said cheerfully.

  Alleyn grinned. ‘There you are. It’s all a matter of association. Mine’s lilac and throws back to a pleasant childhood memory. But if beer happened to make you sick or my nanny, whom I detested, had worn lilac in her nankeen bosom or Father Jourdain associated lilies with death, we’d have all hated the sight and smell of these respective flowers.’

  Mr Merryman looked with pity at him. ‘Not,’ he said, ‘a remarkably felicitous exposition of a somewhat elementary proposition, but, as far as it goes, unexceptionable.’

  Alleyn bowed. ‘Have you, sir,’ he asked, ‘a preference?’

  ‘None, none. The topic, I confess, does not excite me.’

  ‘I think it’s a heavenly topic,’ Mrs Dillington-Blick cried. ‘But then I adore finding out about people and their preferences.’ She turned to Dale and at once his smile reprinted itself. ‘Tell me your taste in flowers,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell you your type in ladies. Come clean, now. Your favourite flower? Or shall I guess?’

  ‘Agapanthas?’ Mr Merryman loudly suggested. Dale clapped his glass down on the bar and walked out of the room.

  ‘Now look here, Mr Merryman!’ Father Jourdain said and rose to his feet.

  Mr Merryman opened his eyes very wide and pursed his lips: ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘You know perfectly well what’s up. You’re an extremely naughty little man a
nd although it’s none of my business I think fit to tell you so.’

  Far from disconcerting Mr Merryman this more or less public rebuke appeared to afford him enjoyment. He clapped his hands lightly, slapped them on his knees and broke into elfish laughter.

  ‘If you’ll take my advice,’ Father Jourdain continued, ‘you will apologize to Mr Dale.’

  Mr Merryman rose, bowed and observed in an extremely highfalutin’ manner: ‘Consilia formiora sunt de divinis locis.’

  The priest turned red.

  Alleyn, who didn’t see why Mr Merryman should be allowed to make a corner in pedantry, racked his own brains for a suitable tag. ‘ “Consilium inveniunt multi se docti explicant”, however,’ he said.

  ‘Dear me!’ Mr Merryman observed. ‘How often one has cause to remark that a platitude sounds none the better for being uttered in an antique tongue. I shall now address myself to my post-prandial nap.’

  He trotted towards the door, paused for a moment to stare at Mrs Dillington-Blick’s pearls and then went out.

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ she ejaculated. ‘What is all this! What’s happening? What’s the matter with Aubyn Dale? Why agapanthas?’

  ‘Can it be possible,’ Tim Makepiece said, ‘that you don’t know about Lady Agatha’s umbilicus globula and the hyacinths on the turdy stable?’ and he retold the story of Aubyn Dale’s misfortunes.

  ‘How frightful!’ Mrs Dillington-Blick exclaimed, laughing until she cried. ‘How too tragically frightful! And how naughty of Mr Merryman.’

  Tim Makepiece said: ‘We don’t ’alf look like being a happy family. What will Mr Chips’s form be, one asks oneself, when he enters the Torrid Zone?’

  ‘He may look like Mr Chips,’ Alleyn remarked. ‘He behaves like Thersites.’

  Jemima said: ‘I call it the rock-bottom of him. You could see Aubyn Dale minded most dreadfully. He went as white as his teeth. What could have possessed Mr Chips?’

  ‘Schoolmaster,’ Miss Abbott said, scarcely glancing up from her book. ‘They often turn sour at his age. It’s the life.’