Bland Beginning (5 page)

“Duke’s son, cook’s son, son of a belted earl,

Son of a Lambeth publican, we’re all the same today.

“Can’t remember any of this modern stuff like that.”

“Strong or weak, Colonel?”

The Colonel looked at the straw-coloured mixture in the cup and said with dismay, “That looks delightful, Mrs Rawlings.”

“I read a lot of poetry myself,” Vicky said.

“Do you? Keats, Shelley and the
Rubá‘iyát,
with a little Rupert Brooke to bring you up to date?”

What an intolerable young man! And it happened that the
Rubá‘iyát
was on her bedroom bookshelf (it was so sad), and that she had shed some tears over Rupert Brooke’s poems in the past. “I read the moderns.”

“Oh yes. Who are they?”

She thought desperately, but every name escaped her. “Sludge,” she said. “Arthur Sludge.” It was the name of their butcher. “I’ve enjoyed his poems very much. He’s probably too obscure for you ever to have heard of him.”

“Not at all,” he said. He turned his full face towards her, and she thought how ugly he looked. The corners of his mouth were twitching slightly. “I admire Sludge’s work very much. Such a grand sweep, hasn’t it? And such fervour. Such a gift of melody – reminiscent of Swinburne, don’t you think?” She turned scarlet and he stopped abruptly. “Do forgive me,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all.” Her voice was choked, and she thought she was going to cry. She had never been so glad to see brother Edward as when he opened the door at that moment and said grumblingly that he supposed there was no tea left…

She got up, poured a cup of tea and gave him a little cake, which he ate in two mouthfuls. He took another, and brushed a crumb off his waistcoat. “I feel curiously hungry,” he said. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with me. I thought Shelton was coming to tea. Where is he?”

“How should I know?” Vicky snapped, and he looked at her in surprise. There was a cry of protesting brakes outside, and feet pounded the steps. “There he is now,” she said, and rushed outside, as much to hide her tears of humiliation as to greet him.

Her mind came back with a jerk to the diary, and she discovered that her mouth was open. All that was much too painful to put down. He had been perfectly horrid. But when Anthony arrived now…when Anthony arrived… She began to write again.

“I always get a thrill just from seeing Anthony; he really looks so much like a God walking among men, so ‘magnificently unprepared for the long littleness of life’, that it’s exciting just to be with him. But today I was cross with him because he was so late for tea so I gave him a
peck
instead of a proper kiss, and I said something nasty about his great, clod-hopping feet. I said he’d probably been to watch cricket and he looked guilty for a moment, but it must have been just a reaction, for then he said he’d brought me an engagement present. I’ve told you, dear diary, that I said I didn’t want a ring because rings are so vulgar, and I’d asked him to think of something rather
outré.
Well, he
had!
The nicest
possible
thing. A copy – a first edition! – of grandfather Martin’s poems,
Passion and Repentance.
I looked at him and he looked back in that shy way he has, not knowing whether I’d be pleased or was still angry with him, and I couldn’t say anything, but I threw myself into his arms and gave him another kiss, a
proper
one this time. Oh dear diary, he is sweet, and I do love him so. It was the loveliest little book, in a faded blue cover, and I knew it must have cost a lot of money. Anthony said he’d bought it at a sale, and
that
was why he’d gone up to London.

“I took him in to see them all – he’d not met Colonel Stone before, or his nephew. Mother fluttered about and poured a cup of tea, and brother Edward asked hopefully if his car had broken down. Then I couldn’t resist saying that Tony had been late because he had been buying me an engagement present, and that it was a book. Brother Edward looked interested at the word ‘present’, but just grunted when he heard it was a book. Colonel Stone said that he thought jewellery would have been more appropriate. Then I told them it was a first edition of grandfather Martin’s poems. I was specially pleased because nobody in the family has got a copy of this first edition except Uncle Jack perhaps, and I was glad to be able to say it in front of this young man Basingstoke, who really had been beastly and superior, like all those Byronic types, while we’d been talking. They didn’t seem much impressed by the news. Mother said grandfather Martin’s poems weren’t altogether nice, and brother Edward dislodged a piece of cake from a tooth and said grandfather Martin was an infernal old bore. So then I turned to the Colonel’s nephew, who at least had had the grace to keep fairly quiet, and asked if he would like to see them and he smiled for the first time, really quite nicely, and said he would, very much.

“I will say that he handled the little book gently, almost reverently – I don’t think Tony liked it altogether, or him. And then, I don’t quite know why, except that he’d been so horribly superior, I asked him if he would read one of the poems, and he looked at me hard and said yes he would. He read it beautifully. This was the poem:

Sometimes within our fleshly bouts I knew

An angel moved in you: and then my breath

Was shortened to brief gasps and I knew death

To be our dear-beloved, our sweet and true.

But other days I tuned my rampant lyre

To all the maddest music of your stringing.

Rich blasphemies and savage lusts went winging

Up on the Pegasus of my desire.

Dear lover, sweetest sweeting, lovely coz,

What if the joy we felt was transitory?

Are not our natures animal? and one

With dogs, who feel no Godhead and no loss?

Does not our goats’ and monkeys’ sense of fun

Reveal the farceurs of the human story?

“There was a rather shocked silence, and then Mother said poetry always made her feel quite faint, and Colonel Stone said he still preferred Kipling to these moderns. I was just telling him that grandfather Martin was less modern than Kipling – he died in 1876 – when there was a sudden exclamation behind me. This young man Basingstoke was looking at my little book as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, and that terrible scar of his was twitching away like anything. When I asked him what was the matter, he said he thought the book of poems was a forgery!!

“Then, there was a great hubbub. Tony was furious – I think he wanted to fight Basingstoke – he doesn’t show to the best advantage, much though I love him, when the situation is at all complex. Colonel Stone kept saying, ‘’Pon my soul, never heard of such a thing.’ Mother was wailing that it couldn’t be true because everybody knew that grandfather Martin wrote the poems, though she thought they shouldn’t be read aloud. I told her not to be silly, because obviously that wasn’t what the young man meant, and Tony asked what the devil he
did
mean then. I think Basingstoke was rather surprised that everyone seemed so angry. He tried to back out of it and said that he shouldn’t have mentioned such a thing, and we’d better let it drop. Then brother Edward said, I must say rather sensibly, that he couldn’t just say the thing was a forgery and leave it at that, and added typically that the market value of the book must be quite high and if Tony had paid through the nose for something that was worth nothing he would want to know about it. So Basingstoke looked at me (and I must say that with the good side of his profile turned towards you he looks
very
romantic) and asked if I wanted him to explain. I said I did. And Tony, standing with his legs apart on the hearthrug, glaring at Basingstoke, said, ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got to say,’ rather as if the poor man were a prisoner at the bar.

“It was really very simple – but awfully interesting – and very quick of him to have noticed it. The publisher’s name on the page of the book that gives its title was
Letts and Ableton, Beaulieu Street, London
, and the year of publication was given too – 1860. Now, it seemed that this young man Basingstoke is writing a history of publishing in the nineteenth century, and to do that he’s investigating the history of various publishing houses, changes in their policy, the time they began and the time they ceased to publish books – if they aren’t in existence now – and so on. One of the firms he’d investigated was Letts and Ableton – he had notes on them, which he’d left out in the hall in his briefcase, and he showed them to us. They were founded in 1830, and published various books – novels, historical books and poetry mostly – but in 1857 Ableton died. Letts took in as partner a man named Willcox, and from the beginning of 1858 all publications of the firm had on them the name
Letts and Willcox.
At the same time the firm moved from Beaulieu Street, which was the old address of Letts and Ableton, to Dover Street. So therefore, he said, any book that had on it the name
Letts and Ableton
must be a forgery, in the sense that it couldn’t have been published by that firm in 1860.

“When he’d finished he looked round rather triumphantly. We all sat trying to work it out for a minute or two, and then there was a storm of objections. Mother suggested that somebody at the publishers had made a mistake, and put in the wrong name or the wrong date. Brother Edward said obviously it must be some error of that kind, and we could clear it up very simply by asking the publishers, and Basingstoke began to get rather annoyed. (When he gets annoyed the good side of his face looks very handsome.) He told us that Letts and Willcox went out of business in 1871, and no records of the business were available. And as for a mistake, he said mistakes of that kind just didn’t occur. Then he hesitated, and went on: ‘I’m rather sorry I raised this whole question, but now that I have, let me make the position clear. There’s a presumption that these poems weren’t published by Letts and Willcox, or Letts and Ableton, but were published by somebody else who just stuck the name of that firm on the book. That, if it’s true, would mean that the book must really have been printed after 1871, because nobody would have dared to use a publisher’s name in that way while the firm still existed. And
that
in turn, if it’s true, would mean that this book isn’t a first edition, but, from a bibliographical point of view, a comparatively worthless forgery.’

“‘If this is so obvious,’ said brother Edward, ‘why hasn’t it been found out before?’

“Then Basingstoke got more annoyed. ‘It’s not obvious,’ he said. ‘I simply happen to have some specialised knowledge on the subject, that’s all.’

“Anthony had been almost bursting for a few minutes. Now he burst. He wanted to know if Basingstoke meant to say the thing was worth nothing and he’d been swindled out of a hundred guineas? He was looking splendidly wrathful, and then he suddenly realised he’d told me what he paid for the book and went as red as a turkey, and stammered incoherently. Poor, sweet Tony!

“We all went on talking and arguing until I was sick of it. Tony was upset because he’d told me how much he paid for the book, and I think he would have liked to fight Basingstoke. And
he
didn’t look Byronic any more, but just puzzled and rather worried, and I didn’t mind him so much, even if he had been superior, and when he came over and muttered an apology to me and said that he was afraid he’d made himself awfully offensive, I told him he was forgiven. After all, he had a
great deal of charm
, and really I sometimes quite
forgot
about that terrible scar. Brother Edward got annoyed too, and kept saying it was a waste of good money. Colonel Stone said he disliked poetry, anyway, except Kipling, and Mother said it all made her feel rather ill. Finally, Basingstoke seemed to gather himself together, and made another long speech. ‘I know I’ve been awfully tactless,’ he said apologetically. ‘Please don’t think I’m trying to make matters worse if I make another suggestion. My publisher’ (and then he turned to me and said, with another smile, ‘Oh yes, I have a real publisher, Miss Rawlings’) ‘is a man named Stuart Henderson. He may be able to help us, because he’s a particular friend of a critic named Blackburn, who wrote an essay on your grandfather. Won’t you both come up to London with me and see him tomorrow morning?’

“Brother Edward, of course, said he certainly wouldn’t, couldn’t spare time for that sort of gadding about, and then Basingstoke turned to me – I believe he’d really planned it with
me
in mind all the time – and I began to feel it was all rather exciting. First of all, of course, I’d felt
madly
miserable, on my own account and on Tony’s, but now the idea of going up to see a publisher and engage in what I suppose is a kind of
quest
did seem rather exciting. And I suppose if the thing
is
a forgery it ought to be exposed. And he asked so very nicely. So I said
yes
, and then I turned to Tony, who was glowering away by the fireplace, and he said he wished he’d bought me a necklace or a brooch or something. I told him (which is perfectly true) that it was the loveliest present, anyway, but it would be exciting to see the publisher man. After all, suppose we’re on the track of something really
important
, international book-forgers or something like that. If there are such things, which I suppose there aren’t.”

Vicky viewed the last sentence with some disapproval, and then looked at her watch. It was nearly twelve o’clock. She had been writing and thinking for almost two hours, and her hand felt quite stiff. She carefully blotted the last page of the diary, locked it, replaced it in the drawer and locked the drawer. Then she undressed, put on a nightdress, rolled into bed and within five minutes was fast asleep. Her almost-beautiful face, with lips slightly parted, stared at the wall. Men with scars, and Greek gods, both brandishing forged marriage certificates, chased each other through her dreams.

Anthony tapped the top of his egg nervously. “I say, father.” Mr Shelton lowered
The Times
a little, and arched his brows. “You know that little book by old Martin Rawlings?”

“
Passion and Repentance
? Yes.”

“Is there any likelihood that it – that first edition – you know, the one we were talking about yesterday – is a forgery?”

Mr Shelton lowered altogether his defence of
The Times
and stared at his son in surprise. “I should think it most unlikely. What on earth put such an idea into your mind? Did you buy it?”

“Well – yes.” Anthony was rather reluctant. “It cost more than you said. A hundred guineas.”

“That was too much.” Mr Shelton’s lips were a thin line in his nut-brown face. “I don’t want to preach to you about money, Anthony, but I should like you to bear in mind that it is almost always foolish to pay more than a current market price. What makes you think it may be a forgery?”

Anthony shuffled. “It’s not my idea at all. There was a chap who’d been asked to tea at Vicky’s – perfectly poisonous bounder he was too, took a dislike to him at once – and
he
said…” He recounted Basingstoke’s story. “What do you think?” Anthony asked at the end of his tale. He began to open the morning’s post.

“I’m a little out of my depth in this talk about publishers’ names. What I do know is that this little book has a market price. The market price has been reached only after experts have sifted all the evidence for and against its authenticity. That seems to me to make it very unlikely that – what’s the matter?”

Anthony had choked over his tea, and his blue eyes were bulging slightly. He pushed over a letter he had just opened. It was from Lewis & Sons, Booksellers, of Peaceful Alley, Blackheath, and said that they were given to understand that he had purchased a first edition of
Passion and Repentance
at Messrs Lintot’s sale yesterday. They were empowered to offer him the sum of £150 for this book, and they looked forward to hearing from him. They were etcetera.

Anthony walked up and down the breakfast-room, crowing with delight. “This’ll show that blighter Basingstoke. Not genuine, eh. It’s genuine enough for somebody else to want to pay a hundred and fifty pounds for it.”

“Ye-es.” His father’s nut-brown face was cut into lines of concentration. “Frankly, my boy, I don’t understand this.”

“It’s easily enough understood. Would they offer all that if it weren’t genuine?”

“Would they offer that much if it
were
genuine? Think of it, Anthony. Copies of this little book usually fetch sixty or seventy or at the most eighty pounds. You pay twenty or thirty pounds more than you should have done for it. Now this bookseller, acting on behalf of somebody else, offers you twice what it’s worth. Why?”

“Some old geezer wants it badly, I suppose.”

“Are you going to let him have it?”

“Good Lord, no.” Anthony stared. “I’ve given it to Vicky. I only want to prove it’s genuine to show up that chap Basingstoke. We’re going to see a chap about it this morning. Man named Henderson.”

“The publisher, yes,” Mr Shelton mused, tapping a finger on the table. “Be careful what you do and say, Anthony,” he advised. “There’s something odd about all this.”

“I say,” Anthony shouted from the hall. “Forgot to tell you. I bought you a present too. Works of Henry James. They’ll probably arrive today.”

The door banged. Mr Shelton repeated, “Something very odd about all this.” He poured himself another cup of tea.

“Something odd?” said Stuart Henderson. “Why no; I don’t think so.” The publisher was in his early thirties. He wore a beautifully-cut grey suit, his features were round, smooth and slightly greasy, and he wriggled sinuously as he talked. His voice was at once gentle and petulant. “I think, John, you’ve been letting your imagination
run away
with you. That’s always a trouble with you
creative
people.”

“But what about the change in the publisher’s name? How do you explain that?”

“I don’t
explain
it,” said Henderson with a wriggle. “But I do say that there may be many explanations without resorting to the – ah – rather startlingly improbable one of forgery.”

“Such as?”

“Somebody may have made a mistake. Even in the best publishing houses,” Henderson put up a white hand and coyly patted greasy blond hair, “such things
do
happen – let it only be whispered.” He put one hand on his lips with exaggerated caution. “Or there may have been intimate personal reasons why Martin Rawlings made a special arrangement with these publishers. As you know, these poems were thought rather
daring
in their day – so daring that Martin had this little edition printed, and distributed it purely among his friends. The poems weren’t offered on sale to the public until 1868 – eight years later. And speaking of that” – he tapped his nose with one hand – “here is a possible, even a probable, explanation. Martin Rawlings goes to Letts and says, ‘Will you print these poems for me?’ Letts looks at them, shakes his head, and says that he can’t take the risk. Martin finally persuades him to print them for private publication only, and as an additional safeguard Letts puts on his old address. How does that seem?” He beamed round at them.

“Rotten,” Basingstoke said. “It wouldn’t be any safeguard at all in case of prosecution unless he put on a completely false name; and no reputable publisher would do that.”

“No; that’s true.” The publisher seemed downcast for a moment. Then he beamed again. “I see you’re determined to have it your way, my dear John. But I feel sure you’re wrong. You can depend on it that some comparatively
trivial
thing of that kind is the explanation. The idea of a forgery – my dear John, my dear Miss Rawlings, my dear Mr Shelton – a forgery that deceived such experts as Michael Blackburn and James Cobb – that’s a
very
romantic idea.”

“What about that offer I received this morning?” Anthony asked. He felt somehow oddly disappointed now that the book was proving to be perfectly authentic, as he had known would be the case. He didn’t even feel quite as pleased as he had expected about doing that blighter Basingstoke in the eye.

The publisher shrugged his shoulders. “Collectors are notoriously eccentric. If I were you, I should accept the offer.” They all sat silently, and then he wriggled. “I see that you are – not quite happy, John?”

“I shan’t be happy until somebody gives me a satisfactory explanation of that change in the publisher’s name,” Basing-stoke said flatly. “Will you, Miss Rawlings?”

Vicky’s mouth was slightly open. She closed it firmly as she said, “No.’’

Stuart Henderson held up a white hand. “A thought,” he said. “A thought.” He picked up a telephone on his desk and said, “Ask Miss Cleverly to come in, please. She works on our production side,” he explained, “and knows a great deal about the technical processes of book production. But she’s also very interested in bibliography and all that. Frankly, she
terrifies
me.”

“You wanted me?” Miss Cleverly was a small girl with a gnome-like face. Her mouth was a smear of red, she had a mass of dark, untidy hair, and her hands were dirty. “I hope it’s important. I’m very busy.”

Henderson pushed over to her the disputed copy of
Passion and Repentance.
“Tell us out of your
extensive
knowledge, my dear Miss Cleverly, is there
any
likelihood of this being a forgery?”

Miss Cleverly barely looked at the little book, but in her glance Basingstoke thought he saw a momentary flicker of some special interest. “Why ask me when there’s a real expert available?”

“A real expert,” Henderson said tentatively. “You mean – ah – James Cobb?”

“Good God, no.” She made a gesture, which seemed to indicate that if there had been a spittoon available she would have used it. “Cobb’s in his dotage. Never sees anybody or does anything nowadays.”

“Ah – Michael Blackburn?”

“A dilettante,” said the small girl scornfully. “I mean Jebb.”

“Jebb?” Henderson repeated, trying to conceal the blankness on his smooth features.

“Jebb applies science to literature. He has some tests for the genuineness of manuscripts which are quite new, and he’s applied them particularly to nineteenth-century books and pamphlets.”

“Has he?” said Anthony with genuine enthusiasm. “I say, that’s the stuff.”

Miss Cleverly rounded on him almost fiercely. “But don’t expect Jebb to welcome you. He suspects everybody.”

“What of?”

“Trying to steal his ideas. Pinching them so that they can anticipate his discoveries. He’s right too, as often as not. He’s working hard to get a book out now and when it appears – my word – the balloon’s going to go up.”

“What balloon?” asked Anthony.

“Lots of balloons,” Miss Cleverly said mysteriously. “It just depends on the mood he’s in, whether he’ll talk to you.” She looked at them critically. “He wouldn’t say anything to you,” she said to Basingstoke. “Too literary. He’d think you were trying to pinch his ideas.” She swung round on Vicky. “Nor to you, I think – he’d think you were a sort of beautiful spy.” Her gaze rested on Anthony, who shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think he’d have any suspicions of anybody as big and blond and athletic as you are.”

“Well, I don’t know –” Vicky said faintly.

“Good Lord, I couldn’t possibly tackle a chap like that alone,” Anthony said, alarmed but delighted. He added, with a ponderous attempt at guile, “Couldn’t you be persuaded yourself, Miss – ah – Cleverly – to come along and lend a helping hand?”

She laughed. “All right. Jebb and I are old friends, and I haven’t seen him for a week. He lives in Madderly Gardens, just off Russell Square. We’ll look in on him.” She settled herself on the edge of Henderson’s desk and pointed a finger at Basingstoke. “I know you. Enjoyed your poems. What’s the idea of this amateur scouting party?”

“Amateur scouting party,” Anthony said, and chuckled. He looked at Miss Cleverly with admiration.

Basingstoke explained, and Miss Cleverly’s gnome-like features showed surprise. “You must be off your heads,” she said, and turned particularly to Anthony. “
You
, anyway. If you prove this is a modern forgery, you’ve lost a hundred pounds.”

“Guineas,” said Anthony automatically. He ran a hand through his curls. “I suppose that’s true.”

“But you still want to see Jebb?”

Anthony hesitated. He felt somehow, for no particular reason, that he was making an important decision. “Yes.”

Stuart Henderson rose and extended a plump white hand. “Good luck on your exciting
chase.
Really, this dynamic little lady does know the most interesting people. But one thing
does
occur to me.” He wriggled tentatively towards Vicky. “I should have said something about it before, but I didn’t want to be embarrassing. If you really want to delve, I think there may be secrets hidden in old Martin’s
naughty
past.”

“What kind of secrets?” Vicky asked, but the publisher shied away nervously.

“Nobody really knows
much
about those years Martin Rawlings spent in Italy. Perhaps there’s nothing to be known. I don’t want to be a
scandal
monger
,
but if the scientific Mr Jebb should fail you, it might be a good thing to go and see Michael Blackburn. He’s written the only biographical sketch of your grandfather, and I could probably arrange it for you.” He seemed to look particularly at Anthony, who shifted uneasily.

“I was going to ask you about that,” Basingstoke said. He added hesitantly, “But perhaps –”

“Mr Jebb sounds too wonderful,” Vicky exclaimed, and clasped her hands together.

“Seems to have some jolly interesting ideas,” Anthony observed.

“Jebb’s a literary scientist, if that’s what you want,” Miss Cleverly said. “Of course, if you want somebody arty –”

Henderson flashed his plump hands despairingly. “Obviously it’s Mr Jebb. I shall leave you to present your fascinating problem to this little
tigress.
But if you
do
want to see Michael Blackburn, come back and let me know.” He giggled and patted Miss Cleverly on the shoulder. “He may be a dilettante – but he does know a lot about Martin Rawlings.”

“He’s a fool,” said Miss Cleverly as soon as they were outside Henderson’s office. “Got time for a cup of coffee?” She shepherded them to a café round the corner. Cups of greyish liquid were placed in front of them. “Now look here. You may be on the track of something bigger than you think. Do you want to follow it up?”

“International forgers?” Vicky asked. Her voice went up a note in excitement.

Miss Cleverly wavered. “Tell you more when we’ve seen Jebb. Something more than one pamphlet, anyway.”

“Then let’s go round and see him right away,” Anthony said enthusiastically.

“I say.” Vicky’s voice had risen almost to a squeak. “There are a lot of old family papers in a trunk in our attic. Do you think it would be worth looking through them? Suppose we found a reference to some dealings Martin had with these publishers – or some letters or something – or a book – there’s a
tremendous
lot of stuff there. It would be grand if we found something.”

“Grand. Grand,” said Miss Cleverly impatiently. She gulped her coffee so fast that she spilt some on her chin. “Division of labour, then. You two go off and search in an old attic, and we’ll pay a call on Arthur Jebb. Then we meet and pool information.”

Anthony scowled at Basingstoke. “Is that all right, Vicky? Or would you like me to come with you?”

She smiled at him sweetly. “Of
course
it’s all right, darling. Hasn’t Miss Cleverly said that nobody except you would be able to exercise the requisite charm on the mysterious Mr Jebb. You just go ahead and have a wonderful time” – she patted his sleeve – “and we’ll poke about among old manuscripts.”

Anthony’s brow became corrugated. He was at sea with even the most portentous irony. “Well then,” he said uncertainly, “let’s meet this evening for dinner at my house. Will you be free, Miss – ah – Cleverly?” She nodded. “And you?” he said curtly to Basingstoke.