The Golden Virgin (8 page)

“Why did you sigh?” asked Kingsman.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Kingsman observed the nervous look in the face beside him, and wondered what was the cause. He said nothing more. They got down the ladder and went into the church, where, resting on the floor, was a massive dark oak cage supporting the bells above.

Two slate slabs lay on the floor—one of
Jasper
Kingsman,
who died in 1688, the other to
Jonah
Kingsman,
both barristers of the Middle Temple.

“The older one gets, the more one feels a sense of security through one’s forebears, particularly if one happens to be the last of one’s line. I have a feeling that I belong here, although I was born in India, and so far as I know no Kingsman has lived here for over a hundred years.”

Outside the lych-gate Phillip said, “I think I know what you mean. I was born not far from the Crystal Palace, but I feel that my real home is in Gaultshire, where my mother’s people came from. I think I would rather be buried there, than in London, though best of all, since one has to die sometime, is a battlefield grave.”

Kingsman was hesitating, as though to speak or not to speak, when Phillip said, “Do you mind if we find the others and have a drink? A short life and a merry one, that’s my motto!”

*

When the Swift stopped at a garage near the esplanade of Southend-on-Sea Cox and Wigg left for their different ways, while Phillip accompanied Captain Kingsman who had to inspect a detachment of troops on the pier. As they went down the long board walk Kingsman said, “So you knew Cox before, did you? Some of the red pepper of the East seems to have got into his system. Too much sun in China, perhaps. He was married while we were stationed here, to a girl in his billet. She lives with her
people. I fancy he finds it difficult to make ends meet on a second-lieutenant’s pay.”

“I wonder what happened to his fiancée, the one he had when he was at Sevenoaks, I mean. It seemed to me rather strange to want to pick up girls, when he was engaged to be married.”

“Well, I suppose life is more difficult for some of us than for others,” said Captain Kingsman, to discourage any further gossip. He changed the subject. “This mud is all a present from London, I suppose.”

The tide was out. Black sludge extended for miles. A fresh breeze was exhilarating. Phillip thought it fun to make regular strides over the boards, and at the same time to try to avoid stepping on a crack. It was more than a mile to the end, and he had to stare intently, with constantly changing pace. At the end of the pier were buildings and huts occupied by the Royal Naval Air Service. When he stopped it was beside three old men who were fishing, and speaking to one, he saw that they were blind. They were employed at night to listen for the note of the Maybach engines, which powered the Zeppelin gondolas. Their sense of hearing was the more acute because of the loss of sight, said Kingsman.

When he had paid the detachment, and they had inspected quarters, Captain Kingsman said to Phillip that they were free, and if they left right away, they would be at his home in time for luncheon. The Swift meanwhile had had its oil drained and the sump refilled, for temporary oil, suitable for Ford engines only, had been put in at Horndon-on-the-Hill.

“Do you mind if we have a quick drink, Captain Kingsman?”

“Well, can it be a quick one?”

Coming out of an hotel, Phillip invited his company commander to drive, but Kingsman declined, saying that he so enjoyed looking at the country, particularly when there was no hurry to get from place to place. Phillip understood what he intended to convey; something as it were apprehended in the retina of the eye, and not by a frontal stare. So he drove at a steady thirty, and was pleased with himself when his company commander said, “It is paradoxical how the steadier one drives, the faster is progress made. Speed is a relative condition of movement; the more one consumes oneself to go faster, the longer seems the journey.”

“Do you mind if we stop for a drink, Captain Kingsman?”

“Well, I don’t think we shall have time. I telephoned from
the pier that we would arrive about ten minutes to one. Can you wait until then for some beer?”

“Oh yes, of course, Captain Kingsman.”

At last they came to a road between thin and tall willow trees growing in parallel straight lines behind trimmed quickthorn hedges bordering the road. Kingsman explained that the heavy clays of the rodings grew the best wood for cricket bats in England. Pheasants flew up, from under oaks in a meadow.

“Are you a shooting man?”

“Only in a small way.”

“It’s remarkable how the eating qualities of a cock pheasant, a young bird particularly, vary between late October and late November, in this part of the world. In October, the barley they pick up on the stubbles puts on flesh that is inclined to be without much taste, but after a week or two of acorns, the bird has a nutty flavour, equal with a full-bodied burgundy. If they’re smoked, they’re excellent.”

“The only bird I ever smoked was a sparrow, when I tried to roast it on a green stick over a wood fire, while making tea in a billy can. Both tasted of the same smoke!”

Was his remark rather pert? He was relieved when Captain Kingsman laughed. “I tried a water-hen when I was a boy, baking it in clay, but even my puppy refused it.”

“Was that here in Essex, sir?”

“Do drop the ‘sir’, it makes me feel quite old! Call me Jasper. No, this is my wife’s country. The next turning to the right is ours. In about half a mile.”

Woods succeeded water-meadows and willows. A level area of gravel opened up on the other side of the road, with a view of a lodge with twisted brick chimney stacks of damson colour issuing smoke, tall iron railings with gilded decorations on top, and open gates of iron-work.

“In here?”

“Yes. The house is half a mile on.”

It looked as though Kingsman lived in a big country house. There would be servants; he hadn’t brought a dressing-gown, never having had one. Still, he could wear his British warm over his pyjamas when he went to the bathroom. Oh, and bedroom slippers! He had never had any of those, either. He had only twelve shillings. How much ought he to tip the butler? Then there was petrol to be bought on the way back.

The house was cream-coloured, with two huge pillars rising
beside the entrance seen across a lake fringed with reeds. The drive curved round the lake, and leaving it behind went on between smooth lawns to the Palladian front of the house. As the Swift stopped, Phillip noticed a heraldic wolf’s head ensculped on the key stone of the arch above the porch, its tongue pierced by an arrow. Yes, there was a butler, opening the door.

Smiling, he drew it wide open as he walked backwards in a way that made the smile, the bow, the good-morning and the arc of the opening door all part of one motion. A sovereign tip at the very least; he was probably more used to getting fivers! With the thought of In for a penny, In for a pound, Phillip entered a hall panelled in oak, with an open hearth, on which smouldered a six-foot section of beech-tree. The chimney piece above was coloured with armorial bearings, and around the hall itself stood suits of burnished armour. A dog bounded down the stairway that was open to the light through a large southern window, and again from a glass dome far above in the roof. The dog, a setter, came gently to Phillip with feathering tail and touched his hand with its cold nose, then without pause went on to its master, talking in its throat and appearing to find some difficulty in speaking, due to excitement that was controlled. Only its tail waved more furiously; and then, overcome by the reaction of having waited all the morning for this moment, it opened its mouth wide and let out a small noise between yawn and yowl.

Mrs. Kingsman came down the stairs after the dog, smilingly towards them both. She greeted her husband as though he too were a guest, Phillip thought, with a manner that seemed artificially bright. She held out a limp hand to him, while looking into his eyes with a frail sort of lost look. Her eyes seemed to dwell upon him with vague questioning before a light came in them and she said, with sudden animation, “I am so glad you could come with Jasper, was it fun in your little motor? I do hope you had a good journey?” He saw that she carried two tallow candles in her hand.

Captain Kingsman led him down a stone-cold passage to a little room with a wash-hand basin in an iron frame, and a table on which stood a tarnished looking-glass. On a cloth were ivory-backed hair-brushes inlaid with a gold monogram. They looked to be quite new. He was left alone, and when he went back to the hall the butler was waiting for him beside a tray on a sideboard, on which were various bottles of beer. He chose Bass, which
was quietly poured into a long thin glass on which a hunting scene had been cut, he thought, with a diamond. He waited while the glass was placed on a silver tray and offered to him, where he stood a yard away, wondering where the others had gone. The butler with his slight bow left the room.

How could he get away? And tomorrow was Sunday, a prospect of dull and suspended life, against which his mental struggle was quelled before it began. If only he could get to a pub, if only Kingsman were not so old and staid.

As he sipped the bitter drink he heard voices above. When Mrs. Kingsman was beside him again he thought she looked less distraught, although her eyes were still far away in thought. The same remoteness of manner had come upon Kingsman, as though the easy-going, genial personality Phillip had known in the company office and the mess at Grey Towers had been subdued by the dark oak of the hall, part of the very sameness of time, beams and posts which had stood for centuries, bearing with stone mullioned arch and wall and coign the weights of a house that had stood since the Tudors, for father and son, uncle and nephew, until the present owner, the heiress who had married Jasper Kingsman.

The luncheon was very simple, it might have been one in his own home, except that it was the butler who put the fish pie on the table before Mrs. Kingsman, and not Doris. Mrs. Kingsman filled the plates which the butler took round with the same gentle gravity, following with a tureen of brussels sprouts on one side and peas on the other. He sat quietly, alert and polite to all that was said, feeling that the conversation was forced, and that it was his nervousness that was the cause of it, for he did not know what to say. He thought that he was a dull person, and suffered a little and for comfort withdrew into himself and sat on his hands part of the time, to feel less stiff and more in balance with himself. He got off his hands when Mrs. Kingsman said,

“My husband tells me you have recently come back from France, Mr. Maddison. Did you see anything of the Royal Flying Corps when you were out there?”

“We did not see one scout ’plane during the entire battle of Loos, Mrs. Kingsman. Of course the weather was dud at times, and our machines were outmatched by the Fokkers, which can fire through their propellers, and so our chaps in their Martinsydes, Morane Parasols, and dud old B.E.’s and F.E.’s hadn’t a hope. Anyway our staff is hopeless, the whole battle was a
ghastly mess-up in every way. Where the R.F.C. was I don’t know, probably having a binge miles away from it all. They get even more pay than our old navvies, and have tremendous champagne parties.”

“Not all the time, surely?” said Kingsman, quietly.

“Well, quite often, from what I heard. And I do know that for the four days I was on the battlefield, not one ’plane was to be seen. Again and again I heard our chaps asking where the R.F.C. was, and then the German reserves came up unspotted, and when we went over to the attack on Sunday, whole battalions were mown down. Nobody knew where or how or why they were there, and some of the reserves, who came up late and hungry, fired at one another, never having seen a German. No observation by the R.F.C., obviously.”

Neither Kingsman nor his wife spoke. The butler stood unmoving as Phillip finished his pudding, while Mrs. Kingsman played with a fork and a few scraps on her plate. It was a relief when the meal was over and Mrs. Kingsman told the butler they would have coffee in the smoking-room. There to his surprise, she smoked a cigarette with them, taking nervous puffs at it while talking about the birds which came to her bird-table, including nuthatches and woodpeckers. This mood did not last, for the distant look came back into her eyes and she left, murmuring about writing some letters.

When she had gone, Kingsman said, “I expect you would like to see your room,” and Phillip wondered if they had both found him a bore, and to make matters worse, he had begun to stutter. In silence he walked beside Kingsman up the broad stairs to where on the first landing a long corridor with leaded windows all along one side of the house led to what he thought was a wing. Coats-of-arms in stained glass were let into all the leaded casements of the windows. It was the Long Gallery, said Kingsman, and faced north to give an even light upon the pictures hanging along the opposite wall.

Opening a door beyond the gallery, he said as Phillip hesitated, “Do go in, won’t you.” Inside the room he said, “You might care to rest for a bit, or write letters; if there is anything you want, you’ll ring, won’t you?”

Phillip saw a tester bed, a table with a rack holding very blue writing paper, envelopes, sealing wax and pens, a bowl of mixed apples and pears, and a green plate with gilt edging on which lay a gold dessert knife. The uneven glass of a bookcase reflected the
flames of the wood fire burning in the hearth. His haversack lay on a stool.

“At three o’clock, in about an hour’s time, Dolly and I usually go for a walk, you might care to see the gardens, such as they are at this time of the year, but do please yourself. We’ll be down in the hall at three. Ring if you want anything, won’t you,” and Kingsman went out and shut the door.

Phillip thought he would write a letter to Mrs. Neville, telling her of his extraordinary adventure, and the mysterious atmosphere in the house, while examining a piece of blue writing paper embossed in white
Tollemere
Park,
Chelmsford,
Essex,
with a telephone number and station name of the Great Eastern Railway. But first he must explore. Carefully opening a door, after warning coughs, he found himself in a bathroom, with many immense pipes wrapped in some sort of bandages heavily covered with cracked white enamel; and opening a second door, discovered a dressing-room, with a thing like a commode without pan, but with sort of bicycle handles for holding on, and a base covered with leather hiding some sort of springs. It had a wooden handle projecting from the back, by which it could be jigged up and down. What was it, a liver rattler? Perhaps in the old days of two-bottle port men, this was necessary as well as foxhunting six days a week. Or was it for the summer, anyway it was a horrible looking thing.