The Beckoning Lady (30 page)

Mr. Campion did not answer. His attention had been caught by the little knot of people who were standing on the river's brim near the wherry bridge. The S.S.S. man did indeed look strained, and his two solid companions, with their broad secret faces, were glancing about them with the cold predatory interest peculiar to the body-snatching kind. Their womenfolk were with them, but they were in the background and were openly unimportant. Burt and Hare, male and watchful, were the dominating factor.

Campion was interested because he saw that they had taken up some sort of grandstand position and were clearly waiting for something. The crowd broke over the little rock they made and flowed on either side of them. As Campion stood watching, he became aware of a commotion on the drive behind him. A small blue van labelled “Bacon Bros. Wet Fish. Billingsgate”, and driven rather recklessly, had turned off the gravel and with much hooting and screeching had bounded on to the lawn and bounced its way to within a few yards of the body-snatchers and S. S. Smith. Instantly, and without any other visible cause for the transition, the gay garden-party quality of the gathering turned into something wilder. The setting sun shone brighter, the wind got up. Rupert and the twins, with Choc bustling behind them
like a nursemaid, all petticoats and agitation, dashed through the legs of the company shouting “Many happy regurgitations!” Tonker appeared on the balcony of the boat house. Emma, sensational in a long gown which would have appeared normal in the 'thirties, stood poised at the drawing-room door, flushed and joyous. Minnie, with a bearded dignitary on either side of her, came sailing round from triumph in the barn.

As soon as the van stopped the door was opened and five small and wiry fishmongers in striped aprons and straw hats emerged in a state of great excitement, and began handing out more and more unlikely seafood, including two large blonde live mermaids complete with rubber tails, shell brassieres, and Tonker's masks. One fishmonger rushed up to old Lord Tudwick, who was balancing on the wherry, blinking in the unaccustomed light and fresh air, and planted a plaice in his hand.

“It's got a bend in it,” he explained in the squeaky voice so well known throughout the land.

“Oh well,” said Minnie, putting her hand on Mr. Campion's shoulder, “the Augusts have arrived. Now, of course, we're for it.”

THE BODY FLOATED
on its back among the irises just above the flower garden at The Beckoning Lady. It had been there for nearly two hours, ever since it had drifted into the bank at the turn. As the stream was scarcely flowing, it remained there, borne up by the air in the lungs and in the clothing.

The night had turned warm. The breeze had dropped and the moon, which was at the full, was just beginning to colour the shadows so that the drawn white face was very vivid against the dark water. For some time now the reeds had held the dark bundle almost stationary, and while there was no swifter current there was just a chance that it might remain where it was. But these rushes were the last of the obstacles, and once there was any real disturbance, or the stream began to move at any pace, nothing could stop it floating down to join the other debris collecting against the wherry bridge in front of the boat house.

At the moment the lawn was deserted except for Scat, who was flitting round in his white shoes turning on lights. The main company was at supper in the barn, and the dark building buzzed excitingly like a giant hive. It was a lull, the halfway mark.

The little people had gone to bed. Rupert, who was staying with the twins, was sleeping on the floor in their bedroom, his head full of clowns and Choc at his feet.

The kitchen, crammed with the visitors who arrive on country occasions to assist, was pausing between the serving rush and the washing-up gossip. Old Harry was singing his song, which had a hundred and thirty-two verses, and Miss Diane was pressing the cook from Potter's Hall to try a little American ham.

Mr. Lugg, despairing of any other method of attracting his employer's attention, edged his way through the cigar and brandy fumes in the barn, and touched him on the shoulder.

Mr. Campion rose at once, leaving the civilised warmth, and came out into the meadow.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Fell orf.” The fat man sounded reticent. “Ferget it. I'm 'ere and I'm safe—at last. Nearly missed everythink. You'll 'ave a tidy bill to foot, but we can't 'elp that. I found it, Cock.”

Mr. Campion's heart stirred. “Where?”

“The chemists in 'Adleigh. It was a regular perscription. 'E knoo it at once.”

“Who?”

Lugg looked about him. There were shadows in the dusk.

“'Oo we thought,” he murmured cautiously.

A long sigh escaped Mr. Campion. “The man?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“Campion.” Tonker's hand fell heavily on his shoulder. “Just a moment, old boy. I want you to stay right by my side, if you will. I am going to show you something.” He slid his arm through the other man's own and his muscles were like iron. “I don't want you to miss what's going to happen now. I want you to experience with me one of the more enjoyable spectacles of a civilised lifetime. I want you to see an August talking to a spiv, with the perfect audience sitting round the ring.”

Mr. Lugg hesitated. “If you want me I'll be round the back,” he announced. “It's to be a bit of a night tonight. Ever 'eard of wheat wine?”

“Oo-er.” Tonker bristled and the whites of his eyes appeared in the moonlight. “My dear innocent fellow, take a tip from a sadder and wiser man. In your present perilous position there is only one road to salvation, and there is no absolute guarantee about that. Creep into the
front kitchen and ferret round in the cupboards until you find an old-fashioned cruet. In it there will be a small and sticky bottle, half full of a dreary yellow oleaginous mess. Hold your nose and swallow it, now. And then go forth. You may see wonders as the oafs promise, but the Pit itself will be spared you. Good luck. God bless you. I suppose the dear fellow is of value to you?” he said affably as he led Campion away. “Wheat wine is, as one may say, the hydrogen bomb among beverages. Whole human islands have been known to sink without trace. Now come along, Campion, my dear chap, this should be Tonker's triumph.”

All the same it was nearly an hour before the second half of Tonker's Midsummer's Night worked up to concert pitch, and by that time the moon was high and a very potent sort of magic was abroad. The man who suffered most during the first part of it was Westy. When the meal was over and the barn almost empty save for a few couples dotted about still talking, he stood, a lonely figure, shadowy in the blue haze above the guttering candles and gave his portrait a sidelong glance of positive distaste. After five hours of unremitting selfless toil and quiet self-effacing application, Westy was very nearly tired of Art.

The Suit, too, was becoming a menace. The sleeves really were half an inch too short already, in eighteen months only, and there was an ominous tightness under the arms. He even envied Tonker in his abominable blazer.

The great men, the critics and the painters, had been kind enough about the Portrait in the early hours before tea, although he could have done without one black-haired blue-chinned æsthete with his mumbo-jumbo about the ‘adolescent contours' and ‘youth's translucent flesh'. But there was no doubt about it, the meaningless portrait of Annabelle, which Tonker had sneaked out and hung in place of one of the flower paintings had stolen all the limelight. Westy was depressed. Not only the pictures, but his heroine had let him down. Minnie had spent the whole dinner sitting between one man who had decided to come in fancy dress as a bookmaker, and another whom
she called ‘Fanny', who looked as if he'd come out of a potting shed. They talked, as far as he could hear it, about nothing more uplifting than money. True, she had looked a little dazed and there was a relieved expression in her sharp eyes which he had never seen before, but to his certain knowledge—for he had kept strict tabs on them—not one uplifting sentiment had passed their lips the whole meal. Only once had she spoken to him and that was merely to ask him to go and look for a bookmaker's letter still in its envelope in the kitchen drawer. The only people who were talking about Art at the moment were Jake, his stomach obtruding again despite the button Westy had sewn on himself, and a dreary wet called Whippet.

They were still at it, hunched over Jake's postcard-sized canvases, which the wet seemed to like. Last time Westy had overheard anything he had appeared to be haggling for a couple of them. It was sickening. The stupidity and obtuseness of the minds of people on the wrong side of twenty seemed to him to be more alarming than any other menace of the era into which he had been born. It was like seeing oneself sailing inevitably into a fog.

Even George Meredith had revealed unexpected flaws. True, he had had all the luck. When the Augusts had discovered the moke and let it loose on the lawn, where it had snapped at The Revver and eaten half of Lady Amanda's new hat, it was George who had retrieved the other half and had been rewarded ceremonially by Tonker with a beaker of champagne.

Ever since that incident George had been an entirely different person, talking as though he had only just realised the years he had to make up, and the willowy blonde he had collected, who was quite four years older and half a foot taller than he, had not stopped laughing.

Now nearly everybody had gone out on the lawn, including the Press men who had given up worrying about boring enquiries and seemed to be quite content to sit or wander about as if the night was going on for ever.

Westy looked at the middle-sized girl who came shyly down the room towards him, and experienced active dislike. He knew who she was. Her name was Mary and she was the daughter of Amanda's sister. She was nothing much to look at, with her freckles and her straight hair, and he eyed her coldly because he guessed she had come on yet another errand from Tonker, who seemed to have had nothing to do all day except to send out trivial orders. Possibly deterred by his expression, Mary's step became slower and slower as she came up to him, and her open nervousness awoke the chivalry which was never very dormant in Westy's New English breast. She stopped dead at the Portrait and stared at it with gratified awe.

“That's you, isn't it?” she said, revealing quite pleasant eyes and the most charming soft red mouth. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“Not bad,” said Westy, shooting his cuffs.

She eyed his tight jacket admiringly and was so open about not caring to venture a comment that it was better than any compliment she could have paid him.

“I am so sorry to have to trouble you, but Uncle Tonker asked me to find his masks and see they don't get lost, and although I know where they are I don't quite see how to get hold of them. I wondered if I could trouble . . .?”

“No trouble at all,” said Westy. “Let's go.”

She coloured and glanced back at the picture. “It's awfully warm out,” she muttered at last, fighting with embarrassment. “And the masks are by the river. A man's got them. I think he might be difficult. I say, I do hope you won't be offended, but I should take it off.”

“My jacket?” The beautiful simplicity of the move came as a revelation to him and he unbuttoned it instantly.

Mary took it from him reverently and hung it over the back of a chair. It was a strange and beautiful experience, intuitive understanding at its fairest and best. Westy glowed under it.

“It'll be safe there,” she said.

“I don't care if it isn't,” said Westy, free and young
and uninhibited again in his clean white shirt. “Where is this guy who's got the masks? Come on.”

On the lawn the scene was like a Shakespearian finale. Prune, her gleaming dress a focal point, her posy on her knee, was sitting on a high chair in the middle of the lawn, with Luke making a dark shadow behind her, and all about them the little groups of chattering folk in their gay party clothes were sitting about in the light of the moon, the glare from the boat house, and the soft yellow beams from the oil-lit house. Minnie and Tonker, with Fanny Genappe and Solly L., were holding court outside the drawing-room, and Mr. Campion and Amanda were chattering with old friends at the other end of the lawn. The river shone in the lights and the little balcony and the wherry bridge were brilliant against a glowing sky. Private jokes were going on everywhere. Two of the Augusts were playing a posthorn galop on the two best glübalübali, and Superintendent Fred South, who had never encountered anything so truly laughable in all his life before, was being supported by a somewhat scandalised Mr. Lugg.

Mary led Westy down the side of the house to a point of vantage on the top of the low wall skirting the room which had been Uncle William's.

“Look,” she murmured. “There.”

Westy craned his neck and perceived the difficulty. The S.S.S. man and his alarming-looking friends had chosen with unerring instinct the best place. In the curious way peculiar to them, they had made themselves both comfortable and aloof in the very midst and forefront of an otherwise entirely communal scene. They had taken possession of the little platform which Minnie had built with her own hands for Uncle William's summer bed, and had transformed it into a box at a music hall. They all had chairs and on the coffee table brought out from the drawing-room there were glasses, even an ice bucket, and the pile of masks. The group did not seem to be talking very much, except that two of the women were whispering, and the glow of the cigars alone showed where the
men sat in the shadows. They were silent, waiting to be entertained.

In front of them the garden sloped sharply to the open stream. The young people were perched some little way behind them, and were far too experienced to intrude. Uncle Tonker's rules were firm and like life's own: if you made a mess of it once you were sunk.