A Night of Errors (7 page)

My Lord, they say five moons were seen tonight…

But the heavens too were behaving well; the mild luminary shone single in its element; nor did certain stars shoot madly from their spheres, a disconcerting phenomenon which Mr Greengrave had on certain previous occasions observed.

Mr Greengrave was so pleased by this that he forgot about his sermon – whether on pilfering or drunkenness – and began to sing. Mr Greengrave sang loudly. The words were those of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers,’ so that nothing but edification could have resulted had he at this time been encountered by any of his flock. Nevertheless under the inspiriting influence of this war-song Mr Greengrave’s foot pressed imperceptibly down on the accelerator, and fifteen miles an hour was very soon exchanged for thirty. He pulled himself up with a jerk. Jollity, even of a robustly clerical sort, plainly would not do. A more chastening – nay, depressing – theme had better be sought. It was thus that Mr Greengrave, with results unpredictable at this juncture although already imminent, turned his thoughts to the people at Sherris Hall.

From the point of view of pastoral care the view in that quarter was commonly bleak enough. But even here Mr Greengrave, thanks to Canon Newton’s vintages, found cause for mild satisfaction now. Lucy Dromio, Lady Dromio’s adopted daughter, was a young person open to much pastoral censure, and he had himself spoken to her with some severity that afternoon. And Lucy’s reply had been to say something flattering – flattering because obscurely true. Mr Greengrave liked finding out about people. Well, there was perhaps nothing particularly gratifying to self-esteem in a diagnosis such as that. But Mr Greengrave – Lucy had added – had the sort of brain that pieces people together and sees what a thing is all about…

Now, in a way this was outrageously untrue. Mr Greengrave was not really at all clever (he had only to think of himself in colloquy with Canon Newton to realize this) and therefore it was impossible that he should have the marked powers of analysis and synthesis that such an opinion suggested. But in a way Lucy was right – because often Mr Greengrave did successfully piece people together and see what a thing was about; only he did this in a substantially intuitive way. From time to time he would
see
, and in doing so would leave more abstractly perceptive people standing.

He had seen that in the Sherris hinterland some enigma of mystery reposed. And Lucy saw this too – or perhaps Lucy had less an intuition than some positive if fragmentary knowledge. It was a bond between them. And she had actually asked him to investigate – to tackle some ill-defined problem of family relationship troubling the awareness of each. That in a situation so nebulous the two of them might have quite different notions of where the mystery lay was an intellectual conception which did not occur to Mr Greengrave. Now, driving carefully through the deepening summer dusk, he was about to let his mind play upon the Dromios with whatever result might come. But this never happened. For, quite suddenly he
saw
.

Really
saw
. For it was a revelation as purely visual as it was spontaneous, and it was won sheerly from the void, without preparation or labour, like some line that precipitates a great poem. And this vivid and revealing appearance, astounding in itself, of course rendered much more disconcerting what was to happen to Mr Greengrave a few minutes later.

He continued to see the winding road to Sherris Parva, familiar in the lengthening shadows. But floating upon this he saw two faces – faces which were also familiar enough, but which had the superior reality of images compelled upon one by powerful forces deep in the mind. The two faces floated before him more or less at opposite ends of the windscreen. And then they coalesced, drifting together rather like complementary pictures viewed through a stereoscope. And at the moment of their coming together Mr Greengrave exclaimed aloud. ‘Well, I’m damned!’ he said.

Instantly the vision vanished. Mr Greengrave was astounded and shocked at what he had seen, but he was perhaps even more distressed at what he had said. What would Canon Newton think of an ejaculation so little pious – so profane, indeed? And it was the more offensive in that what was untrue of himself had been revealed to him as a painful approximation to plain fact in the case of certain other persons. People among whom such things happened must surely feel like lost souls… Mr Greengrave drew into the side of the road and stopped his car. The thing needed thinking out. Moreover the shock of his discovery – for he never doubted that it was that – had upset whatever precarious control he had achieved over the physical world about him. The ditch was in motion; it was behaving less like a ditch than a reptile. The poplars undulated like great dark flames. The road flowed as if it were water.

Mr Greengrave closed his eyes and laid his head on his arms, the better to cope with the situation which had started upon him. His discovery, he knew, imposed some duty, but for the moment he could by no means discern what that duty was. He was not a policeman, nor was he yet assured that there was matter in which the law would interest itself. For instance, questions of inheritance might be involved. Supposing there had been a marriage –

At this moment Mr Greengrave’s interior counsels were interrupted by the sound of an approaching motor car. He looked up, turned round and saw that it was about to overtake him. Twilight had barely fallen; the moon was still mere tissue-paper in the sky; at close range visibility was scarcely affected. Nevertheless the shades of evening lent something insubstantial to the scene, and would have done so even were that scene not faintly gyrating under the influence of Canon Newton’s wines. The car approached. And once more Mr Greengrave saw two faces. Once more they were familiar. But this time they did not drift together; rather it was as if by some monstrous alchemy they had been torn apart. Moreover this was no vision, no mere retinal image. To what he now saw something in the external world did after some fashion correspond.

The car passed on. To Mr Greengrave what had happened was at once clear and humiliating. There was still only one moon in the sky and he himself (for he investigated this) had four fingers and a thumb on each hand. Nevertheless, and like any bibulous person in a vulgar print –

And then Mr Greengrave wondered. Did not this plain betrayal by the senses cast very substantial doubt upon the reliability of that earlier and purely inward vision?

At least it would be necessary to go carefully. In every sense to go carefully, thought Mr Greengrave. And he drove on in third gear.

There was silence among the three ladies in the drawing-room. It had lasted for some time. Lucy played patience, her head bent as if she were listening to a whispered message from the cards. Mrs Gollifer was lost in reverie. Lady Dromio stirred uneasily, rose and walked to the window. ‘It must be put an end to somehow,’ she said.

Mrs Gollifer laughed. Beneath the standard lamp where she sat she looked old and ill. ‘The evening?’ she asked. ‘It is true that I must certainly be getting home.’

‘Perhaps Lucy would like the drive and a tramp home by moonlight. It is quite her sort of thing.’ Lady Dromio had tossed her embroidery into a corner, much as if whatever purpose it had served was over. ‘Lucy, would you care–?’

‘It is so complicated.’ Lucy spoke quietly, but both ladies turned to her at once. They looked hopeful, relieved.

‘So many points to consider. One doesn’t know where to begin.’

Lady Dromio nodded. ‘If only Oliver–’

‘For instance, here are two five of Spades, and I know what is under each.’

Mrs Gollifer sank back in her chair. Lady Dromio uttered a sound which might have been merely exasperation, or might have been desperation of a very different quality. Lucy glanced briefly at each of them in turn. Her face was pale and expressionless. ‘I wonder why Sebastian didn’t come in,’ she said. ‘Possibly he might be able to help.’

Lady Dromio turned round. ‘Certainly not!’

‘Since he is a capital bridge player and must have an eye for cards in general.’

‘Really, Lucy, this is most–’

‘Unfilial, mama? Queen on King and here is the Knave.’

Lady Dromio was silent. She may have been reflecting on the sundry small ways in which she had found an obscure nervous release in plaguing her adopted daughter in former years. But now she turned back to the window and with an agitated gesture threw it open. ‘It is insufferably close tonight. There must be a storm coming.’

‘Assuredly there is that.’ And Lucy nodded. ‘It is the wind and the rain for all of us, I am afraid. As for Oliver’ – she paused – ‘I think it is likely that I shall kill him.’

‘Lucy, dear, that is idle and horrible talk.’

‘It sounds silly, doesn’t it? Nevertheless that is what I think I shall do. To – to be stained so.’

There was something in her voice that stirred Mrs Gollifer. ‘Drive home with me,’ she said. ‘I can rouse Evans and send you back in the car. Or – or you might stop the night.’

Lucy was silent. But she had abandoned her cards and was slowly, petal by petal, tearing and shredding a rose which she had worn in her bosom. The clock ticked. Lucy glanced down at her hands. ‘A rose is a rose,’ she said. ‘A rose is a rose is a rose.’ She looked with the faintest of smiles at Lady Dromio, who appeared alarmed at this mysterious incantation. ‘Only a poem,’ she said. And there was silence again.

‘It isn’t quite dark yet.’ Lady Dromio spoke matter-of-factly, as if determined that something without an inner meaning should be said. ‘And I think I have seen Sebastian in the garden. Probably he is prowling with a cigar. I shall go and take a turn with him. There is nothing like a cigar in a garden at night.’ With nervous haste, or with an odd resolution, she stepped out to the terrace and disappeared.

Lucy looked first at Mrs Gollifer and then at the clock, which stood at ten forty-five. ‘It is funny,’ she said, ‘but there really seems nothing to say.’

‘Then let us not try to say anything.’ And for several minutes Mrs Gollifer was silent. ‘But there is surely something to be done.’

‘Is it not a little late in the day? Or do you feel that the situation is happily covered by the adage Better Late than Never?’

‘I said that something must be
done
, Lucy. I realize that, for you, the chief shock is about Oliver.’

‘I love him.’

‘I know you loved him. I think we have all already understood that.’

‘It is not what I said. I love him. Now.’

Mrs Gollifer’s expression flickered; there might have been read in it a mixture of perplexity, mortification and relief. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘you can hardly feel–’

‘Oh, dear me, yes. Do you remember the poem which says that each man kills the thing he loves? In certain circumstances it is likely to be true.’

But now Mrs Gollifer was looking at the younger woman with dilated eyes. ‘Lucy,’ she cried, ‘was Oliver…all the time…encouraging you?’

Lucy’s lips moved; she seemed to be seeking a precise form of words. ‘The phrase, I fear,’ she said, ‘is inadequate to the specific nature of what has occurred.’

Mrs Gollifer seemed to take unnaturally long to elucidate this grotesque little speech. When she did so, however, she began to weep.

‘How does it go?’ And Lucy let the shreds of the last rose petal fall. ‘Some kill their love when they are young, and some when they are old; some strangle with the hands of Lust, some with the hands of Gold. Well, that’s very appropriate. My love has been strangled with the hands of Gold, exactly.’

‘We have had more than enough.’ Mrs Gollifer controlled her weeping and rose. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall be of a better mind. And now I am going. Don’t stir. I shall go up for my cloak and then find my car. Kate will understand.’ And Mrs Gollifer left the room.

For a long time Lucy Dromio sat quite still, her hands limp on a table where lay the ruined rose. Then she got up and went to the window. The summer night had fallen. For minutes longer she stared into it, motionless and absorbed. She shivered. Very silently, she slipped into the garden and vanished.

‘Look here, what’s all this?’

Sebastian Dromio strode into the drawing-room where his sister-in-law and Lucy were sitting. His entrance had rather the effect of the knocking on the gate in
Macbeth
. A spell painfully broke itself. Lucy picked up her patience cards and shuffled them. Lady Dromio looked about her for her embroidery.

‘But, Sebastian, what are you speaking of? And is half past eleven a companionable hour at which to join us?’

‘Companionable hour be damned. You don’t look companionable, either of you, if it comes to that. And there’s something uncanny about this house tonight. I don’t like it.’ As he spoke to his sister-in-law thus, Sebastian cast at Lucy a considering and almost fearful glance.

‘Old houses do sometimes get like that. Or any large building, for that matter. Lucy will tell you that I have been reading a most unusual novel about a big–’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Sebastian gave short shrift to this dive of Lady Dromio’s towards her old refuge. ‘Either of you been outside?’ he asked sharply.

‘We have both of us been outside at one time or another. The night is mild.’

‘No doubt.’ Sebastian took an irresolute pace about the room. ‘Look here, there’s something queer going on. And I knew there would be as soon as Oliver behaved in that deuced queer way this morning.’

‘As soon as
what
?’ Lucy had sprung to her feet. ‘Uncle Sebastian, whatever are you saying?’

‘Good heavens!’ Sebastian swung round upon his sister-in-law. ‘Haven’t you told the girl?’ He crossed to the window and appeared to be listening uneasily. ‘Secrets all the time! And where’s Mary Gollifer?’

‘Sebastian,’ Lady Dromio explained, ‘says that he thought he saw Oliver in London this morning. I didn’t mention it. We – we seemed to have enough on hand.’

‘I see.’ Lucy too appeared now to be listening. ‘And did you tell–’ She hesitated.

‘Mary? No, I did not.’