The Seven Dials Mystery (2 page)

“Sorry,” apologized Jimmy. “I say, Tredwell, am I the last down?”

“No, sir. Mr. Wade has not come down yet.”

“Good,” said Jimmy, and entered the breakfast room.

The room was empty save for his hostess, and her reproachful gaze gave Jimmy the same feeling of discomfort he always experienced on catching the eye of a defunct codfish exposed on a fisherman's slab. Yet, hang it all, why should the woman look at him like that? To come down at a punctual nine thirty when staying in a country house simply wasn't done. To be sure, it was now a quarter past eleven which was, perhaps, the outside limit, but even then—

“Afraid I'm a bit late, Lady Coote. What?”

“Oh, it doesn't matter,” said Lady Coote in a melancholy voice.

As a matter of fact, people being late for breakfast worried her very much. For the first ten years of her married life, Sir Oswald Coote (then plain Mr.) had, to put it badly, raised hell if his morning meal were even a half minute later than eight o'clock. Lady Coote had been disciplined to regard unpunctuality as a deadly sin of the most unpardonable nature. And habit dies hard. Also, she was an earnest woman, and she could not help asking herself what possible good these young people would ever do in the world without early rising. As Sir Oswald so often said, to reporters and others: “I attribute my success entirely to my habits of early rising, frugal living, and methodical habits.”

Lady Coote was a big, handsome woman in a tragic sort of fashion. She had large, mournful eyes and a deep voice. An artist looking for a model for “Rachel mourning for her children” would have hailed Lady Coote with delight. She would have done well, too, in melodrama, staggering through the falling snow as the deeply wronged wife of the villain.

She looked as though she had some terrible secret sorrow in her life, and yet if the truth be told, Lady Coote had had no trouble in her life whatever, except the meteoric rise to prosperity of Sir Oswald. As a young girl she had been a jolly flamboyant creature, very much in love with Oswald Coote, the aspiring young man in the bicycle shop next to her father's hardware store. They had lived very happily, first in a couple of rooms, and then in a tiny house, and then in a larger house, and then in successive houses of increasing magnitude, but always within a reasonable distance of “the Works,” until now Sir Oswald had reached such an eminence that he and “the Works” were no longer interdependent, and it was his pleasure to rent the very largest and most magnificent mansions available all over England. Chimneys was a historic place, and in renting it from the Marquis of Caterham for two years, Sir Oswald felt that he had attained the top notch of his ambition.

Lady Coote was not nearly so happy about it. She was a lonely woman. The principal relaxation of her early married life had been talking to “the girl”—and even when “the girl” had been multiplied by three, conversation with her domestic staff had still been the principal distraction of Lady Coote's day. Now, with a pack of housemaids, a butler like an archbishop, several footmen of imposing proportions, a bevy of scuttling kitchen and scullery maids, a terrifying foreign chef with a “temperament,” and a housekeeper of immense proportions who alternately creaked and rustled when she moved, Lady Coote was as one marooned on a desert island.

She sighed now, heavily, and drifted out through the open window, much to the relief of Jimmy Thesiger, who at once helped himself to more kidneys and bacon on the strength of it.

Lady Coote stood for a few moments tragically on the terrace and then nerved herself to speak to MacDonald, the head gardener, who was surveying the domain over which he ruled with an autocratic eye. MacDonald was a very chief and prince among head gardeners. He knew his place—which was to rule. And he ruled—despotically.

Lady Coote approached him nervously.

“Good morning, MacDonald.”

“Good morning, m'lady.”

He spoke as head gardeners should speak—mournfully, but with dignity—like an emperor at a funeral.

“I was wondering—could we have some of those late grapes for dessert tonight?”

“They're no fit for picking yet,” said MacDonald.

He spoke kindly but firmly.

“Oh!” said Lady Coote.

She plucked up courage.

“Oh! but I was in the end house yesterday, and I tasted one and they seemed very good.”

MacDonald looked at her, and she blushed. She was made to feel that she had taken an unpardonable liberty. Evidently the late Marchioness of Caterham had never committed such a solecism as to enter one of her own hothouses and help herself to grapes.

“If you had given orders, m'lady, a bunch should have been cut and sent in to you,” said MacDonald severely.

“Oh, thank you,” said Lady Coote. “Yes, I will do that another time.”

“But they're no properly fit for picking yet.”

“No,” murmured Lady Coote, “no, I suppose not. We'd better leave it then.”

MacDonald maintained a masterly silence. Lady Coote nerved herself once more.

“I was going to speak to you about the piece of lawn at the back of the rose garden. I wondered if it could be used as a bowling green. Sir Oswald is very fond of a game of bowls.”

“And why not?” thought Lady Coote to herself. She had been instructed in her history of England. Had not Sir Francis Drake and his knightly companions been playing a game of bowls when the Armada was sighted? Surely a gentlemanly pursuit and one to which MacDonald could not reasonably object. But she had reckoned without the predominant trait of a good head gardener, which is to oppose any and every suggestion made to him.

“Nae doot it could be used for that purpose,” said MacDonald noncommittally.

He threw a discouraging flavour into the remark, but its real object was to lure Lady Coote on to her destruction.

“If it was cleared up and—er—cut—and—er—all that sort of thing,” she went on hopefully.

“Aye,” said MacDonald slowly. “It could be done. But it would mean taking William from the lower border.”

“Oh!” said Lady Coote doubtfully. The words “lower border” conveyed absolutely nothing to her mind—except a vague suggestion of a Scottish song—but it was clear that to MacDonald they constituted an insuperable objection.

“And that would be a pity,” said MacDonald.

“Oh, of course,” said Lady Coote. “It
would.
” And wondered why she agreed so fervently.

MacDonald looked at her very hard.

“Of course,” he said, “if it's your
orders,
m'lady—”

He left it like that. But his menacing tone was too much for Lady Coote. She capitulated at once.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I see what you mean, MacDonald. N—no—William had better get on with the lower border.”

“That's what I thocht meself, m'lady.”

“Yes,” said Lady Coote. “Yes, certainly.”

“I thocht you'd agree, m'lady,” said MacDonald.

“Oh, certainly,” said Lady Coote again.

MacDonald touched his hat and moved away.

Lady Coote sighed unhappily and looked after him. Jimmy Thesiger, replete with kidneys and bacon, stepped out on to the terrace beside her, and sighed in quite a different manner.

“Topping morning, eh?” he remarked.

“Is it?” said Lady Coote absently. “Oh, yes, I suppose it is. I hadn't noticed.”

“Where are the others? Punting on the lake?”

“I expect so. I mean, I shouldn't wonder if they were.”

Lady Coote turned and plunged abruptly into the house again. Tredwell was just examining the coffee pot.

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Coote. “Isn't Mr.—Mr.—”

“Wade, m'lady?”

“Yes, Mr. Wade. Isn't he down
yet?
”

“No, m'lady.”

“It's very late.”

“Yes, m'lady.”

“Oh, dear. I suppose he will come down
sometime,
Tredwell?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, m'lady. It was eleven thirty yesterday morning when Mr. Wade came down, m'lady.”

Lady Coote glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to twelve. A wave of human sympathy rushed over her.

“It's very hard luck on you, Tredwell. Having to clear and then get lunch on the table by one o'clock.”

“I am accustomed to the ways of young gentlemen, m'lady.”

The reproof was dignified, but unmistakable. So might a prince of the Church reprove a Turk or an infidel who had unwittingly committed a solecism in all good faith.

Lady Coote blushed for the second time that morning. But a welcome interruption occurred. The door opened and a serious, spectacled young man put his head in.

“Oh, there you are, Lady Coote. Sir Oswald was asking for you.”

“Oh, I'll go to him at once, Mr. Bateman.”

Lady Coote hurried out.

Rupert Bateman, who was Sir Oswald's private secretary, went out the other way, through the window where Jimmy Thesiger was still lounging amiably.

“ 'Morning, Pongo,” said Jimmy. “I suppose I shall have to go and make myself agreeable to those blasted girls. You coming?”

Bateman shook his head and hurried along the terrace and in at the library window. Jimmy grinned pleasantly at his retreating back. He and Bateman had been at school together, when Bateman had been a serious, spectacled boy, and had been nicknamed Pongo for no earthly reason whatever.

Pongo, Jimmy reflected, was very much the same sort of ass now that he had been then. The words “Life is real, life is earnest” might have been written specially for him.

Jimmy yawned and strolled slowly down to the lake. The girls were there, three of them—just the usual sort of girls, two with dark, shingled heads and one with a fair, shingled head. The one that giggled most was (he thought) called Helen—and there was another called Nancy—and the third one was, for some reason, addressed as Socks. With them were his two friends, Bill Eversleigh and Ronny Devereux, who were employed in a purely ornamental capacity at the Foreign Office.

“Hallo,” said Nancy (or possibly Helen). “It's Jimmy. Where's what's his name?”

“You don't mean to say,” said Bill Eversleigh, “that Gerry Wade's not up
yet?
Something ought to be done about it.”

“If he's not careful,” said Ronny Devereux, “he'll miss his breakfast altogether one day—find it's lunch or tea instead when he rolls down.”

“It's a shame,” said the girl called Socks. “Because it worries Lady Coote so. She gets more and more like a hen that wants to lay an egg and can't. It's too bad.”

“Let's pull him out of bed,” suggested Bill. “Come on, Jimmy.”

“Oh! let's be more subtle than that,” said the girl called Socks. Subtle was a word of which she was rather fond. She used it a great deal.

“I'm not subtle,” said Jimmy. “I don't know how.”

“Let's get together and do something about it tomorrow morning,” suggested Ronny vaguely. “You know, get him up at seven. Stagger the household. Tredwell loses his false whiskers and drops the tea urn. Lady Coote has hysterics and faints in Bill's arms—Bill being the weight carrier. Sir Oswald says ‘Ha!' and steel goes up a point and five eighths. Pongo registers emotion by throwing down his spectacles and stamping on them.”

“You don't know Gerry,” said Jimmy. “I daresay enough cold water
might
wake him—judiciously applied, that is. But he'd only turn over and go to sleep again.”

“Oh! we must think of something more subtle than cold water,” said Socks.

“Well, what?” asked Ronny bluntly. And nobody had any answer ready.

“We ought to be able to think of something,” said Bill. “Who's got any brains?”

“Pongo,” said Jimmy. “And here he is, rushing along in a harried manner as usual. Pongo was always the one for brains. It's been his misfortune from his youth upwards. Let's turn Pongo on to it.”

Mr. Bateman listened patiently to a somewhat incoherent statement. His attitude was that of one poised for flight. He delivered his solution without loss of time.

“I should suggest an alarum clock,” he said briskly. “I always use one myself for fear of oversleeping. I find that early tea brought in in a noiseless manner is sometimes powerless to awaken one.”

He hurried away.

“An alarum clock.” Ronny shook his head. “
One
alarum clock. It would take about a dozen to disturb Gerry Wade.”

“Well, why not?” Bill was flushed and earnest. “I've got it. Let's all go into Market Basing and buy an alarum clock each.”

There was laughter and discussion. Bill and Ronny went off to get hold of cars. Jimmy was deputed to spy upon the dining room. He returned rapidly.

“He's here right enough. Making up for lost time and wolfing down toast and marmalade. How are we going to prevent him coming along with us?”

It was decided that Lady Coote must be approached and instructed to hold him in play. Jimmy and Nancy and Helen fulfilled this duty. Lady Coote was bewildered and apprehensive.

“A rag? You will be careful, won't you, my dears? I mean, you won't smash the furniture and wreck things or use too much water. We've got to hand this house over next week, you know. I shouldn't like Lord Caterham to think—”

Bill, who had returned from the garage, broke in reassuringly.

“That's all right, Lady Coote. Bundle Brent—Lord Caterham's daughter—is a great friend of mine. And there's nothing she'd stick at—absolutely nothing! You can take it from me. And anyway there's not going to be any damage done. This is quite a quiet affair.”

“Subtle,” said the girl called Socks.

Lady Coote went sadly along the terrace just as Gerald Wade emerged from the breakfast room. Jimmy Thesiger was a fair, cherubic young man, and all that could be said of Gerald Wade was that he was fairer and more cherubic, and that his vacuous expression made Jimmy's face quite intelligent by contrast.