Lucia Triumphant (17 page)

‘
Me innocent Lucia,' she replied, ‘only play tiresome old scales all day long, like going up and down stairs.'

‘
I don't believe you,' said Georgie. ‘You'd better play me something and then I'll know if you've been practising or not.'

So Lucia played the slow movement of the Moonlight Sonata; and, after the requisite sigh, Lucia said that it proved that she hadn't been practising and Georgie said that, on the contrary, it proved that she had.

‘
So many unbearable errors,' she said sadly, ignoring him. ‘My point, I think, is proved. I do need a break,
Georgino,
a holiday if you like, to sharpen up my blunt soul. Tilling has kept me from my studies, my music, my interests, with its incessant demands upon me. Now that it tells me that it needs me no more, I can resume my own life. I shall take this opportunity to retire from the world, and if the world ever wants me back it had better ask me very politely.'

That's the spirit,' said Georgie, stifling a yawn. ‘That'll show them.'

This was not quite the reaction Lucia had been looking for, but since Georgie's reactions were not of the least importance, she was not unduly disappointed. The coming days and weeks would try her patience severely, but she knew in her heart that Tilling could not give her up, any more than a nicotine addict could give up smoking.

* *
*

Lucia would have been reassured on this point had she been outside Twistevant's the next morning when Susan Wyse's market-basket happened to collide with Evie Bartlett's.

‘
So sorry,' said Evie. ‘Clumsy of me. I could have upset something. No motor today?'

‘
A punctured tyre, I believe. But chauffeur assures me that it will soon be repaired.'

‘
And where is Mr. Wyse today?'

‘
A slight headache, nothing to be concerned about. But I insisted that he stay indoors. Any news?'

‘
None at all,' said Evie sadly. ‘Everything seems quite dead without—' She paused, like a philosopher who has just stumbled across a new concept for which no name as yet exists.

‘
Without Lucia, you mean?' said Susan, almost in a whisper.

Thus, in the third week, the vague possibility of Lucia's existence began to take more concrete form, rather as a photograph slowly begins to take shape in the developer's tray; first a blurred outline, then a recognisable shape, then finally the complete picture. There was resentment enough even now, but curiosity is stronger than wrath; like Charity it suffereth long and is not afraid. Tilling had discovered that it could not give up the Lucia habit and was curious to know how Lucia had managed to do without Tilling for so long. It was true that Lucia had her books and her Council and the piano had been tinkling away in the garden-room at all hours of the day, but surely a meagre diet was not enough to sustain life. Was it?

On the way from Grebe, where tea and Bridge had been a rather subdued affair (for Lucia, like Banquo's ghost, had somehow seemed to be present at the table, displacing the mirth), Diva asked Georgie as they walked together back to town how Lucia had been filling her time. She almost said ‘filling her time since she stopped being invited anywhere', but she didn't quite like to, even to Georgie, who understood.

‘
Oh, she's been as busy as anything,' said Georgie truthfully. ‘There's all her official work and her being a J.P., and the Council is considering where they should put the new rubbish dump, and she's very concerned with
that.
And the rest of the time she reads or plays the piano—she's playing much better than she has for a long time now—and when it's fine she does her exercises. And sometimes we go for drives in the motor and sketch old castles and manor-houses, which makes a nice change from drawing the same old houses over and over again. And this morning she was talking of popping up to London for a week or so—
The Magic Flute
at Covent Garden and the new production of
Othello
—and then perhaps going on to Cannes for a month.'

It all sounded so pleasant and relaxing that Diva almost wished that she could be excommunicated too. It had not occurred to her that anyone could have so much fun outside Society, or be so busy. And London, and quite possibly Cannes after that—suppose Lucia decided that she preferred being an outcast and went away for ever and ever, leaving them all at the mercy of Elizabeth? That would be terrible.

‘
So she's not too miserable then?'

‘
Well, she misses all her friends, of course,' Georgie nerved himself to ask the important question, for he still did not know for certain (although he could guess) why the excommunication had come about in the first place. ‘And she always asks me what the news is.'

Diva was slightly comforted by this, although the fear of Lucia seceding, which would be no more than Tilling deserved, had begun to sink into her heart.

‘
Everyone is still angry with her, of course,' she declared. ‘Deeply offended. She should have known better.'

‘
But what did she actually
do
?' demanded Georgie, for he could delay no longer.

‘
Why, saying that she was going to put all our houses in
County Life
and then recommending those others.'

‘
She didn't actually say that,' said Georgie judicially.

‘
P'raps not, but she implied it. Still,
that
wasn't so bad.'

‘
Wasn't it?' said Georgie mystified.

‘
Oh no, it was all those other things. All those fibs about the Padre and the Wyses—telling that writer that the Wyses were the Whites and—'

‘
But that wasn't Lucia,' said Georgie. ‘We didn't even speak to Mr. Arncott. We missed him.'

‘
No! Then who told him all those stories?'

‘
I don't know,' Georgie confessed. ‘Perhaps he just got it all down wrong in his notebook or couldn't read his own writing. That's happened to me before now. I've made a list of things I want from the draper's and by the time I get there the list looks like something quite other, and I don't remember what I really wanted until I get home.'

Georgie was silent for a moment, as if recalling some forgotten grief. Diva, however, had weighed up the likelihood of his suggestion and found it wanting.

‘
But it says at the bottom,' she wailed, ‘that Mrs. Pillson had given invaluable assistance or something. Surely that was—'

‘
That was just for recommending the houses and saying when the streets were likely not to be too crowded. I don't think she told them anything else, for she read me the letter she wrote to Mr. Cuthbertson, the editor.'

‘
How fascinating,' said Diva. ‘But she did recommend those houses in Church Square and not the Vicarage and Wasters.'

‘
Yes, that's true enough. But she never actually promised that she would recommend the Vicarage and Wasters. After all, you weren't supposed to know about it, so how could she?'

‘
Well, Elizabeth said that Mr. Arncott told her—' She stopped dead in her tracks, her brain working furiously. Georgie, not noticing that she had stopped, walked on a few paces alone, then realised his mistake and went back.

‘
What is it?' he demanded. ‘You've thought of something. I can tell.'

‘
Well,' said Diva, ‘it's like this. If Lucia didn't speak to Mr. Arncott and Elizabeth did ....'

By the time they reached the Landgate they were both utterly confused and if anyone had stopped them at that point and asked for a brief summary of their findings, they would have been hard put to it even to agree with each other. Nevertheless, the charge of practical joking was all but lifted from Lucia's shoulders and was, so to speak, circling slowly before swooping down on Elizabeth. Try as they might they could not quite fit together the pieces of the immense jigsaw of evidence that they had compiled and deduced, but both were convinced that a logical explanation could not be far away.

‘
Does that mean that you'll start talking to her again?' asked Georgie as they stopped outside Wasters.

‘
I suppose so. I'm terribly muddled, though.'

‘
So am I. Should I tell her she's forgiven?'

‘
No, don't do that. In fact, don't do anything yet. Oh, how worrying it all is. I'm sure I don't know what we ought to do for the best. And what
will
Lucia think of us all? And what will Elizabeth do when we all start talking to Lucia again? And should we all stop speaking to Elizabeth? I shan't get a wink of sleep tonight. Come in for a sherry?'

Georgie very much wanted to continue the discussion, but it was dark and he was a married man. Besides, rather than become any more confused he wanted to go home and get Lucia to explain it all to him. So he said it was getting late and went on his way. For her part, Diva let herself into the house and sat down dejectedly on a straight-backed chair.

‘
Oh dear,' she wailed aloud, ‘how terribly complicated! Now, if Elizabeth told Mr. Arncott ....'

But the more she thought about it the more difficult it became, and she poured herself a glass of sherry to calm her nerves. Janet, her maid, asked her what she wanted for dinner, but she had no appetite for mere food and bespoke nothing but an omelette. Should she go and confer with the Bartletts? Or should she telephone Lucia? She had already picked up the receiver when she thought of the awkwardness (and the cost) of such a call, and put it down again. Then she thought of the Wyses. They might be able to cast some light on the matter, but she could not now remember all the ins and outs of the argument herself. In the end she ate her omelette and went to bed. After lying awake for several hours, she fell into a troubled sleep and dreams—the product of worry and the slice of strong cheddar cheese she had eaten after her omelette (for man cannot live by thought alone)—fluttered around her head all night; conspiracies, cabals, lies and false witness, all of which were entirely her fault. Finally she dreamt that she was brought to trial at the Old Bailey on a charge of perjury, where Lucia, resplendent in her red Mayoral robes and a black cap, to which was pinned a most elegant little cameo brooch, sentenced her to be transported to Cannes for the rest of her natural life .... She awoke with a start and lay still for a while, trembling slightly. Then something became transparently clear in her mind.

‘
Of course!' she cried. ‘That's it! Why didn't I think of it before? Just wait till I tell—'

Then she went back to sleep.

 

 

The next morning historical interest seemed to be at a peak in Tilling. Major Benjy, on his way to the Club to resume his studies, passed Lucia's motor-car as he went through the Landgate. He was on foot and the front wheel of Lucia's Rolls-Royce, going through a puddle, sprayed him with water. At once the motor stopped and Lucia got down. The Major was in a quandary. Lucia did not exist; on the other hand, her motor quite palpably did, and even a non-existent motorist must be allowed to apologise for inflicting puddle-water on an innocent pedestrian. It would have been easier, reflected Major Benjy, if Cadman, the actual driver of the vehicle, had got down to apologise, but that, in strict terms, would have been rather impolite. The Major resolved on a compromise. He would speak to Lucia if necessary, but he would not, if he could possibly help it, remember her name.

‘
My dear Major Mapp-Flint!' cried Lucia, and her respectful use of his rank and full surname seemed to strike exactly the right note. ‘I am most terribly sorry. Are they wet through?'

Such politeness and sincere concern was most disarming and the Major suddenly found that he could remember that her name was Mrs. Pillson.

‘
Not at all, Mrs. Pillson,' he said loftily, ‘a mere splash, that's all.'

‘
But it was too careless of Cadman. He shall be fully reprimanded; and your poor trousers! Do have them cleaned and send me the bill.'

That sounded, or could be made to sound, as if the Major's trousers never saw the inside of a cleaner's from one year to the next, but he let it pass. He found it hard to be rude to such a polite and charming lady as Lucia was making herself this morning.

‘
No need, I assure you. Fine day,' he added sociably.

‘
It is indeed. Are you off to your admirable studies? How diligent! And I am about the same business, in a way.'

‘
Really?' Was she, too, off to indulge in secret drinking? He doubted it.

‘
I am going to the Cartulary—the depository of ancient manuscripts—oh, of course you must know that already—at Bodiam Castle. No doubt you have used it yourself. No? You must. Invaluable documents, sources, original papers. I must get them to send you one of their Catalogues of Manuscripts. So sorry about the trousers.'

She waved gaily and returned to her vehicle. The Major, a damper but scarcely a wiser man, continued on his way. The High Street was unusually busy today and shoppers were swarming like excited bees from group to group. Cries of ‘No!' and ‘Oh, how fascinating!' echoed between the buildings, betokening some news or other, and the Major resolved to find out what was going on.