Death at the Chase (10 page)

Finn had been glancing at a newspaper. He dropped it casually behind the sofa on which he was sprawling as Bobby Appleby entered the bar.

‘Hullo, again,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But where’s our helpful friend? He’ll be late for opening time.’ Finn gestured at the metal grille which still shut off the business end of the room in which they were foregathering. ‘Not like Giles. He’s one of your six o’clock men.’

‘A bit of a drunk?’ Bobby asked. He didn’t feel that he had as yet got to know Giles Ashmore very well.

‘So so. Perhaps he’s having a quick one elsewhere, before mucking in with his pals.’

‘I hope not. He’ll need all his wits, it seems to me, if he’s really going to bring off this nonsense of ingratiating himself with his rich uncle. It sounds just not on to me.’

‘You ought to know, Bobby.’ Finn sounded quite dashed on behalf of their missing companion. ‘Writing all that stuff must keep you clued up on how chaps tick.’

‘As a matter of fact, I gather Giles has merely gone hunting for his own particular brand of fags. He’ll join us here, and we’ll have dinner. But I doubt whether it’s a good idea.’

‘Dinner isn’t?’ Finn asked. ‘I’d usually call it the best idea of the day.’

‘This particular dinner, you idiot. Having it before paying the visit of reconciliation, or whatever, to the rich uncle. The old creature lives more or less alone, it seems. Three great oafs piling in on him in darkness may just scare him. Or at least he’ll find it very surprising.’

‘Good Lord, Bobby, we shan’t all three pile in! You and I will just give Giles a hand to the front door with his precious claret, and then melt into darkness. As for a surprise, it may be Giles who meets with that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing much.’ Finn laughed abruptly, and then shook his head. ‘This Martyn Ashmore type just mayn’t want a virtually unknown nephew turning up with a Father Christmas act. He may simply turf Giles out.’

‘Nothing would surprise me less. But if you think so, I don’t see why you should encourage Giles in his ploy. He’s your pal, not mine.’

‘True enough. But it’s worth trying. Can’t do any harm, you know. Here’s the girl who’s going to open the bar. What’s yours?’

‘Tomato juice.’

‘Christ!’

‘If I’m going to do all the driving on this silly jaunt, Finn, and have a convivial feed beforehand, I’m not going to begin on Martinis. But that needn’t inhibit you – or this Giles when he turns up.’

‘You are your father’s son, Bobby, my boy. That’s what
you
are.’ Finn lounged to his feet, and suddenly appeared to feel that this had been an improper quip. ‘Sorry, man,’ he said. ‘No offence. I liked your old dad very much. Mum too. I’ll pay.’ He went over to the bar, and returned with drinks. ‘But – do you know? – I thought they’d be better up in all those Ashmores.’

‘My mother knows about them, although not in a very up-to-date way. My father’s like me, a kind of newcomer in these parts. And I don’t know that he very much digs local society. Hasn’t this friend-of-your-bosom Giles told you a lot about his relations?’

‘He isn’t quite that, man. In fact, I didn’t know him until we were both after Robina.’

‘My parents – since you mention them – think it peculiar that bitter sexual rivalry, and all that, should have brought you and Giles together like Two Musketeers.’

‘I expect they think it odd, Bobby, that you make a Third.’

‘I expect they do. But they know I’m interested in drop-outs and queer fish. It’s my job.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ Finn raised his glass in unflawed cordiality. ‘But you can’t call a type who wants to curate things a drop-out. It’s a frightfully respectable life. Only, it seems, just no mun.’

‘And hence this idiotic expedition. I wish Giles would hurry up with his fags. I’m hungry. But about the Ashmores. There’s this aged and well-heeled one at the Chase. Martyn, that is. And Martyn has a brother called Rupert, who is your pal’s father–’

‘That’s right. And Giles, for what it’s worth, has a sister, it seems. Name of Virginia, and engaged to some impecunious French relation. Hard cheese on Rupert, wouldn’t you say? Two marriages in the offing, and not a bean in either of them.’

‘If Rupert is broke, it does, no doubt, have its annoying side. There’s another brother, called Ambrose – and I expect he’s broke too. And they’re all on bad terms with each other. What I haven’t gathered, is just the degree of badness. Do they ever as much as see one another? I just haven’t any line on that.’

‘You must ask Giles.’ Finn had finished his Martini, and was looking wistfully at the bar. ‘About dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought three a bit awkward. One bottle of wine doesn’t really do, and if you have two you feel a bit guilty about going on to brandy and what-not afterwards. Only, of course, if you have things to do afterwards. Like us tonight. You know what I mean? But perhaps, with the car and all, you won’t be drinking very much.’

‘My full share of that one bottle.’ Bobby announced this with proper firmness. ‘And here’s your fellow-toper turned up at last. Shove some hard liquor down him quick, for the love of mike. I’m starving.’

‘Why haven’t we got Robina with us?’ Finn asked an hour later. There had been two bottles of wine, after all, which had meant five glasses each for Finn and Giles. Finn, in consequence, had become even more cheerful than usual, which was proper enough. Giles appeared unaffected until you noticed the particular way in which his complexion had changed. Bobby concluded that he must add the unknown Giles to the intimately known Finn as not having too good a head. ‘Why haven’t we got Robina?’ Finn repeated to Giles. ‘You could present her to the rich uncle.’

‘What do you mean – present her?’ Giles put down his glass and stared at Finn. He spoke quite loudly, so that in the small hotel dining-room several people turned to glance curiously at the three young men.

‘Well, a sort of
droit de seigneur
.’ It was clear that this offensive joke wasn’t what Finn had intended; it had just come into his head. ‘Tied up in pink ribbon. Your uncle might like her quite a lot more than that grocer’s claret.’

‘Shut up, Finn,’ Bobby said.

‘No – but honestly. It might be a good idea for Giles to turn up with his girl. Appealing, mightn’t it be?’ Finn produced an oddly wild laugh. ‘At least it would give old Uncle Martyn a surprise.’

‘Uncle Martyn has met her, as a matter of fact.’ Giles had lowered his voice again, apparently mollified. ‘I brought her down to stay, you know, and my parents were quite civilized at first.’

‘Before they tumbled to the complete absence of cash?’ Finn asked.

‘Just that. My mother even toted her around, and included a call at the Chase. My mother tries to keep us on some sort of speaking terms with the head of the family. It isn’t much good, but she does go over once or twice a year. Well, Uncle Martyn was very decent to Robina. It seems he saw that she’d had about enough of my mother for a time, and he carried her off for a tour of the house all by herself.’ Giles paused before another yelp of laughter from Finn. ‘What are you cackling at? Rather hopeful, it seems to me. Would you say it was about time to get cracking?’

‘Decidedly it is.’ Bobby had glanced at his watch. ‘But you’d better not spend more than half an hour with the old gentleman when you get there. He might find anything beyond that a bit boring.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Giles said readily. He seemed to have formed a high opinion of the sagacity of Finn’s literary friend.

‘And you must be quite frank about the wine.’

‘You mean about its not being all that classy?’

‘Partly that. But chiefly you want to appear quite touchingly naïve about this business of bringing him a present. He’ll see at once that you want to get something out of him. Be childishly transparent about it. You should find it quite easy.’

‘I suppose so.’ This time, Giles sounded a little dubious. ‘You really think that would be the thing?’

‘Definitely. You must amuse him.’

‘Tell him jokes?’

‘I don’t mean that at all. You don’t want to put on your clown’s hat and start turning somersaults. What you must do is wait till you see that he is finding you an unconsciously absurd young man–’

‘His finding that out mayn’t show,’ Finn interrupted gravely. ‘I expect the old boy has quite decent manners.’

‘It will be in the air,’ Bobby said. ‘Giles must wait for it, and then he must suddenly give the game away. Tumble out what he’s really after, I mean, and pretty well ask the old gentleman for a cheque there and then – to be followed by a modest transfer of a few useful investments.’

‘Shock tactics,’ Giles said gravely, and drained his glass with deliberation. ‘I don’t see why not.’

A sliver of moon hung in a clear sky, but nevertheless it was quite dark in the hotel yard. Finn, climbing into the back of Bobby’s car, cursed as the crate of wine dug him in the ribs. He gave it a shove, and then – entirely cheerfully – cursed again.

‘The ruddy thing must weigh a ton,’ he said. ‘Is it really just a dozen of claret?’

‘Well, no.’ Giles Ashmore, wrapping himself in an aged college scarf, spoke rather reluctantly. ‘As a matter of fact, I had the chap put half a dozen bottles of champagne in the bottom. I rather forgot how heavy they are. It’s because of the very thick glass.’ He turned to Bobby, who had found it necessary to get his head under the bonnet of the Mercedes. ‘Do you think that’s all right?’

‘It sounds to have become rather a massive investment to me. If it’s no go, man, you’ll have been put back twenty quid, and nothing to show for it. More, if the champagne is drinkable.’

‘I don’t suppose it’s
very
drinkable.’ Giles was rather dashed. ‘Non-vintage – the stuff you get at weddings and garden-parties.’

‘Always drunk it with satisfaction myself,’ Finn said. ‘And the old don’t notice these shades, anyway. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, you know.’

‘And sans everything,’ Bobby added. ‘I always thought that must be the worst – being sans everything. Just think of it.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Giles sounded a little vague before this philosophical proposition. He watched Bobby bang down the bonnet and straighten up. ‘I say, Bobby, do you know the way?’

‘I expect so. Yell out, if you think we’re going wrong.’ Bobby took his place at the wheel. ‘Wind makes a bit of a row, you know. And I’ll be opening up, when we get on the downs. Claret, champagne and all, you’ll be with Uncle Martyn in a jiffy.’

If this confident prediction did not entirely fulfil itself, it was Bobby Appleby’s own fault. They were off on a futile and absurd trip – he told himself as he drove out of the yard – but one wouldn’t in so many words say so. What one would feed through one’s typewriter would be not the object in view, or even the thoughts and feelings of his two companions and himself. Only what was tangible and visible must be treated as relevant. And perhaps what one could smell as well. The Mercedes, being ancient, did produce occasional wafts of hot oil, and sometimes one caught a whiff of well-worn leather upholstery too. He liked these smells, and thought they could probably be given a job to do. But the main thing was the movement of the wheel which set a faint light from the instrument panel caressing its two spokes; this, and the quivering needles, and the perplexing flicker near the accelerator which was in fact moonlight coming in over his left shoulder, and his own two knees and his gloved hands: these were the immediate materials for making actual the microcosmic life of the travelling car. And then there was what lay out there in the void, flowing past and protean as it flowed, as it slipped from low moonlight into the glare of his headlamps and out again…

Professional reflections of this
nouvelle écriture
kind caused Bobby to miss a signpost – a fact which Giles Ashmore, who ought to have been alert in the matter, tumbled to only a couple of miles later. The mistake made Bobby impatient, and impatience resulted in his presently overshooting the drive to Ashmore Chase as well. But the mild accident which then followed was not his fault at all. Swinging round a bend at an entirely appropriate speed, he became aware of the headlights of an approaching car. He slackened his pace further, and drew into his proper side of the road. Whereupon the other car, which should similarly have moved in towards its left, moved out towards its right instead. Bobby had just time to say to himself ‘yellow lights – French car – forgotten how we drive’ when there came a jolt and a nasty sound of crumpling metal. Both cars were at a halt.

It didn’t seem to Bobby that there was any occasion to make a scene. The other driver had been in the wrong, and if the damage was considerable he would have to pay. An inspection of the state of affairs, and an exchange of information and civilities, seemed all that was required. And if the driver proved to be a foreigner, one ought no doubt to be more forbearing still. But Giles Ashmore was of another mind. He was first out of the Mercedes, and addressing himself in tones of high indignation to what turned out to be the solitary occupant of the other car. If Giles wasn’t exactly drunk he had no appearance of being entirely sober either. Perhaps a little artificial courage might be useful with his uncle. But it was being a nuisance now.

‘Damn and blast you!’ Giles was shouting robustly. ‘Can’t you see you’re on the wrong side of the road? And what the hell are you doing here anyway? This is a private drive. You have no business here at all.’

‘
Au contraire, mon vieux
.’ Not unsurprisingly, the driver of the car with the French headlights was a Frenchman – a young Frenchman who had now descended to the road and was regarding Giles’ surprise with some amusement. ‘But this accident has been entirely my fault. It is your car, my dear Giles? It is a friend’s? Happily the damage seems not severe. But the fullest reparation shall be made. Please introduce me, my dear fellow.’

‘It’s Jules – Jules de Voisin – the chap who’s marrying my sister Virginia. Said to be some sort of relation, in a vague way.’ Giles produced this in a graceless mutter, and then turned back to de Voisin. ‘This is my friend Finn,’ he said shortly, ‘and a friend of Finn’s called Bobby. It’s Bobby’s car you’ve buggered up.’