Miss Hargreaves (34 page)

Austen, the chauffeur, came round the side of the house from the garage. I swung round, hearing his footsteps on the gravel.

‘Anything you want?’ he asked. He looked large and determined. Whatever I wanted, I could see I shouldn’t get it from that fellow.

‘I want Miss Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘At once.’ I tried to make my voice sound important.

‘There’s no such person as “Miss Hargreaves” here. Try farther down the road. And that’s a door-knocker, not a coal-hammer.’

‘Lady Hargreaves, then.’

‘Her ladyship is ’aving tea. In case you’re selling anything, we don’t want it. But her ladyship, with her customary kindness of ’eart, asked me to give you–’

Furiously angry I dashed the half-crown out of his hand. For a moment Austen looked at me curiously, pursing up his lips as though he were considering the best thing to do.

‘I don’t want to ’it you,’ he said, ‘not a little fellow like you, I don’t. It isn’t in me to do it.’

Now that made me really furious, because I’m not little. I’m five foot ten and a half if I’m an inch.

‘I won’t have any of your insolence,’ I snapped. ‘I’m here to see Lady Hargreaves, and if she won’t open the door I shall bang it down.’

‘Ho! So you’re going to be like that, are you? All right. I’ll go and phone for the police.’

He turned and disappeared the way he had come. ‘Coward–’ I cried. ‘Coward–’ I ran after him a few steps. Then I stopped. If he did call the police I shouldn’t stand a ghostly chance.

All right, I thought; all right. We’ll find another way. I went down the drive to my bicycle, propped up against the gate.

Under the rhododendrons, glinting in the earth, I saw silver. I took my bike, wheeled it out into the road, hesitated, then came back. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have the half-crown. After all, it was more mine than hers.

Janie had laid tea. I sat down and cut myself some cake. An idea was simmering in my mind; rather a big idea, undeveloped as yet. As usual, it turned out to be quite mad, but I didn’t see that then. Ideas, as I dare say you’ve noticed, are very like eruptions with me; before I know where I am I’m wallowing in my own lava.

So it was then. Gulping down some tea, I flew to the telephone and called Cornford 4277, the Lessways number. Another Spur of another perilous Moment.

A maid answered, and I asked to speak to Lady Hargreaves. Who would it be speaking? For a moment I hesitated. Who would it be? Certainly not Norman Huntley. Then, plunging down from the Spur, I said in my most plangent voice, ‘This is the Dean.’ Would the Dean hold the line? He would. He did.

A second later Connie’s voice floated cordially to my ears.

‘How nice of you to ring, my dear Dean! I was just sending you an invitation to a little musical party next week. I hope you will be able to come. Yes?’

‘Delighted,’ I murmured.

‘I have engaged a local musician for the occasion. A somewhat interesting–though eccentric–creature.’

‘Oh? Who is that, pray?’

‘One Huntley. A bookseller. I have always believed in encouraging the gifted amateur.’

‘Oh, quite, quite!’

‘I understand he has a touch with the violin. By the way, Dean, now that I am talking of this man Huntley, I wonder if I may bother you with a matter that has given me considerable anxiety of late?’

I paused. Should she bother the Dean?

‘By all means,’ I said. Janie came out from the kitchen with a plate of bread and butter. I waved her aside impatiently.

‘It is about’–continued Lady Hargreaves–‘this man’s son. He is being a very great nuisance to me, claiming a friendship with me solely because of an unfortunate accident which threw him across my path. What is one to
do
about such people, Dean?’

(
What
was one to do?)

‘Shall I–’ I paused and coughed. ‘Shall I have a word with him?’

‘A most capital suggestion! But I would like to talk to you first. There is another matter, as well, rather more serious. May I look in to-morrow morning, after Matins?’

Again I hesitated. Did I want her to come in after Matins? No! I saw at once what to do. The pit that she was digging for others she should fall into herself; bang down to the bottom.

I said, ‘I was just about to call on you, as a matter of fact. That is why I rang. Would it be convenient? I wanted to discuss confidentially this difficult question of the hour for closing the Cathedral.’

Beautiful bait. She took it almost ravenously.

‘Oh, splendid! By all means. Do come. Incidentally, this man Cornelius Huntley is coming in at nine. Perhaps we might talk to him about his son. We must be tactful. I abominate fuss.’

‘Oh, quite, quite!’

‘
Good
-bye, then. Good-bye.’

I rang off. For the first time I noticed Jim who was standing in the passage.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You sound like a rural dean with adenoids.’

‘Oh, quite, quite!’ I muttered gloomily. Going upstairs, I shut myself in my room to think it all out.

As usual, it was the sort of idea that on paper looked well; but when it came to actuality–no! I might manage to impersonate the Dean on the phone; I’ve always been good at altering my tones of voice. Anyway, a phone gives you confidence. But could I ever make myself up to look like him? It was possible. If I put a collar on back to front, wore some horn spectacles and a black hat, the maid who opened the door would probably admit me, at any rate. Once inside I could beard Connie, lock the doors if need be, and spend the whole evening hammering home the truth.

Beard Connie?
Beard
her?

I laughed. A more attractive, more dramatic idea came to me. A beard, even a false one, gets you anywhere; it might even get you past Austen, particularly if it was submitted to him that this was Canon Auty’s beard. In spite of the Canon’s well-known admiration for Lady Hargreaves, he had not yet made his call to Lessways. Lady Hargreaves, it was said, was waiting keenly for this occasion. Very good. Very good indeed. He should call that evening.

I rushed to the theatrical chest on the landing. We’re mad on charades at number 38, and we store everything in this chest that might come in useful. A year ago I had acted Father Time in a New Year’s Eve sketch at a choristers’ party. Here was the cardboard scythe; the hour-glass. I shouldn’t want those; impatiently I rummaged down farther. At last the beard tucked away in a black felt hat which might almost have belonged to Canon Auty. I returned to my room, put on the beard and looked in the mirror. Hat, thick wool scarf, old dark overcoat of father’s. Magnificent–so long as I kept my hat on. Skull-cap? Yes! We had used them in a performance of the
Boy Bishop
. I rummaged again in the chest and found a purple one. Why not a cassock under overcoat? Yes! Canon Auty was known to have High Church leanings, and when you lean that way you always wear your cassock in the street. I went back to my room, locked– myself in, found some grease-paint, and began to get under the skin of the noble canon.

There was a knock at the door. Mother called.

‘We’re going to the pictures, Norman. It’s Greta Garbo. Are you coming?’

I adore Greta Garbo. It was a pity to miss her. Still–

‘Not to-night, mother.’

‘Whatever have you locked yourself in for?’

‘I’ve got a frightfully difficult bit of counterpoint to do for the doctor. I don’t want father interrupting.’

‘That’s a good boy. Don’t get cold. Put on the heater.’

‘All right, mother.’

She went down. Ten minutes later I heard the front door close, saw from my window mother and Jim walking along the street. It was nearly eight now. The moment had come. Limping a little and bowing my shoulders I left the house, crossed the road, walked up the drive to Lessways, and tapped in an Autyish manner on the door. A pretty little Irish maid came. Seized with a fit of asthmatic coughing, I asked to see Lady Hargreaves. ‘What name would it be, sir?’ I fumbled impatiently for a card. Then, ‘Canon Auty,’ I said gruffly.

‘Will you wait a minute, sir? I’ll tell her ladyship you’re here.’

I nodded without speaking and the maid went upstairs. I was sitting in an oak armchair, holding out my hands to the fire and coughing hoarsely. Curiously I studied the furnishing. It was all antique, mostly Jacobean, beautifully polished. Firelight glowed in a grandfather clock. There were samplers, glass paintings and old prints on the walls. A lantern clock struck eight. Behind me, a wide staircase rose to the second floor and doors opened on to the other rooms. The stair-carpet was of pale gold; so were the curtains. On a table, under a gigantic chrysanthemum embedded in a brass pot, I saw several copies of the
Cornford Mercury
and two volumes of
Wayside Bundle
.

Some minutes passed. Nobody came. I grew more and more uneasy. Was she suspicious? Was that devil Austen spying on me somewhere? Were they sending for the police? Could I ever hope to claim the owner of this house a house branded by so many years of impeccable taste as
my
Connie Hargreaves?

The maid came down the stairs.

‘Her ladyship won’t be a minute, sir,’ she said. ‘And won’t your reverence let me take your hat and overcoat?’

‘No, no–’ I mumbled crossly.

She was a darling girl. Black hair and rosy cheeks; simply topping in the firelight. I was getting more and more sick of my beard. There aren’t many pretty girls about and when you meet one you don’t want to be whiskered. It was damned hot too.

Suddenly a voice called from an open door upstairs.

‘Mollie–Mollie–’

The girl hurried away, and I heard voices on the landing.

‘Have they covered up Dr Pepusch, Mollie?’

‘I’ll go and see, your ladyship.’

‘Do. He must always be covered when we have visitors. Remind cook.’

‘Yes, your ladyship.’

‘That is all, then. I shall not need you any more. I hope you are not forgetting your prayers, Mollie?’

‘Oh, no, your ladyship.’

‘Whenever you wish to go to this Mass, you must tell me. I do not approve of the Roman Catholic religion, but since you
are
one I expect you to fulfil your obligations. I believe you are
obliged
to go to this Mass?’

‘That’s right, your ladyship.’

‘Quite wrong–quite wrong–still–by the way, is the Dean arrived yet?’