Berry Scene (20 page)

“Gorgeous,” said Berry. “Can anyone tell me how the love-scene began?”

I related what I had seen before he arrived.

“That’s Coker all over,” said Berry. “One of these days that energetic blow-fly will come to a violent end. He’ll be dismembered, or something. Between you and me, I thought he was doomed today. He may talk big about Chunkit, but I’m inclined to believe he’s been fired from his native land. America has her faults, but no people on earth could stick behaviour like this. I mean, it’s beyond the mules. I’m only so sorry he didn’t do his ‘penny trick’: Sir Andrew would have loved that, wouldn’t he? Oh, and where was that godsend, Nobby? If only he’d done his duty—”

“I can answer that question,” said Daphne. “Nobby is lying outside the housekeeper’s room.”

Six days had gone by, and Fitch was gravely reporting what had occurred in the public bar of
The Rose
.

“It all went off very well, sir, accordin’ to plan. I comes in, as usual, at half-pas’ nine: and I sits down with Mr Fergus, to drink my beer. Doogle’s up at the bar, lettin’ go, as usual, about the idle rich, with eight or ten lappin’ it up an’ drinkin’ his Scotch. Just about ten minutes later, Warren comes in. He stands quite still inside an’ throws a look round. An’ then he sees Doogle – an’ points, like a dog with a gun. But Doogle never sees him, but goes straight on with his talk. Then Warren straightens up an’ lets his voice go.

“‘Well, Elgood,’ he says…

“I tell you, sir, it was like a scene in a play.

“Doogle starts like he’d been shocked an’ knocks over his glass: then he swings round an’ sees Warren, an’ the blood goes out of his face: an’ then he begins to tremble…

“Warren goes on—

“‘Thought you was safe, did you? Thought you’d lie up here with a change of name? You’ll never be safe, Elgood. I’ll always rout you out wherever you go.’ Then he takes out a newspaper-cutting an’ looks at us all. ‘This is Mr Elgood, of Durham – he’s turned his name round. An’ if you’ll excuse me, gents, I’m goin’ to read you a short report of an inquest – the inquest upon my wife. Mr Elgood’s name is mentioned…’ An’ then he reads the report from beginnin’ to end.”

Fitch hesitated there, and a hand went up to his mouth.

“That poor girl’s letter…an’ the things the Coroner said… An’ Doogle shakin’ all over an’ hidin’ his face in his hands…

“Then he puts the paper away, goes up to Doogle, takes him by the scruff of his neck an’ puts him outside. An’ then he starts in…

“When he’s done, he leaves him down in the gutter and comes in an’ has a pint. Never says a word about Doogle, but talks about the Army an’ this an’ that. An’ then he says ‘Good night all’, an’ walks out of the house.

“I stopped on, as arranged, sir, an’ met him back in the stables before he left. He’s a proper man, sir, Warren… An’ Doogle’s gone. Packed up and left this morning at six o’clock. Jem Hollis saw him takin’ the station road. He didn’t know him at first, his face was that out of shape.”

“That’s very good hearing,” said Berry. “And now that their master’s exposed, let’s hope that Elgood’s disciples will reconsider the doctrines which he has dispensed.”

Fitch smiled.

“Shaken ’em up all right, sir. Their faces last night… They didn’t know where to look.”

As we strolled back to the house—

“We can’t complain,” said Berry. “On the whole, we’ve had a good week. The wicked have been discomfited. Coker has been discouraged: the spirit and manner of the operation were soul-shaking, but the fact remains. Then, Doogle has been reduced – thanks to Anthony’s intuition, with sweet efficiency. Finally, a blasphemous imposition has been destroyed: Coker made a good job of that:
Beyond the Mules, after Falk
becomes
Beyond Repair
.”

In Which Berry is Attacked by Lumbago,

and Jill is Escorted to France

“A-a-ah,” screamed Berry.

Daphne, Jill and I jumped nearly out of our skins, and Nobby and The Bold were barking each other down.

When order had been restored—

“Must you do that?” said my sister, with a hand to her heart.

“I must,” said Berry. “My agony must be expressed. If your lumbar region was enriched by the sudden introduction of a red-hot skewer, you would almost certainly remark upon the fact.”

“You must see a doctor,” said Jill.

“I don’t want a doctor,” said Berry. “I want an exorcist. I’m possessed by a devil of great malignancy. Unless it’s cast out, it’ll stay indefinitely. Why the swine should enter my body, I can’t conceive. I suppose it’s because it’s the best he could find about here. Remember those lovely lines of Wordsworth?
The wasp will choose the choicest fruit, The skunk will pick the best-cut suit
. And now could someone help me to orange marmalade? It was in a glorious failure to reach that delicacy that the spasm was induced.”

As she charged his plate—

“But what about Thursday?” said Jill.

“If I have to be carried,” said Berry, “I’m going to start. Besides, the change of air may make my tenant think. And his passport mayn’t be in order.”

Cousin Jill had been at White Ladies for nearly three weeks and now was to join her babies, who were at Pau. I was to drive her down, and Berry had declared his intention of coming with us.

“My darling, you can’t,” said Daphne. “Unless your back is better, you can’t start off on a run of six hundred miles.”

“We can drop him at Rouen,” said I, “if the pain’s too bad.
The Hôtel de la Poste
is all right. And I can pick him up there, when I come back.”

“That’s right,” said Berry. “And I shall subsist on squeezed duck –
specialité de la maison
. All the same, I’m not mad about Rouen. If I have to be dropped, I think it should be at Chartres. After all, the
pâtés de Chartres
approach ambrosia.”

“As a matter of fact,” said I, “you’d be most comfortable at Tours.”

“So I should,” said Berry. “And the table
The
— keeps is above reproach. They’ve a pastry-chef there that ought to be canonized. Tours has it – unless, of course, I can go on.” He drew my attention to his cup. “I hate to trouble you, brother, but the promotion of that vessel is unhappily beyond my power.”

As I passed his cup to Daphne—

“You used to swear,” said Jill, “by the table at Angoulême.”

“She’s right,” said Berry. “She’s right. Their
omelettes aux truffes
belong to another world. Well, let’s make it Angoulême.”

I fingered my chin.

“From Angoulême to Pau is not very far, and the aunt of our cousin-in-law has a quite exceptional chef.”

“So she has, God bless her,” said Berry. “He’s a way of doing sweet-breads that makes you swoon. If I get to Angoulême, I’d better go on.”

Her elbow upon the table, her chin cupped in a palm—

“How you can do it,” said Daphne, “I do not know. Even while you’re gorging, you’re carefully weighing the chances of where your back will allow you to make a beast of yourself.”

“Beloved,” said Berry, “I protest. In the ordinary way my victuals mean nothing to me. But when one member fails, one turns for comfort to another. The small of my back gives in. What more natural than that I should look for consolation to, er, its opposite number. When you have a headache, I order the best champagne.”

“I don’t care,” said his wife. “It’s indecent. When Chartres is mentioned, most people think of the cathedral. You don’t. You think of
foie gras
.”

“Not
foie gras
,” said Berry. “Partridge. Besides, I do think of the cathedral. I remember it perfectly. Hell of a flight of steps and a wicked wind. Will somebody pick up my napkin? I want to blow my nose.”

“Today,” said Daphne, “is Monday. Unless you are very much better, to leave for Pau on Thursday will be the act of a fool. And what about lunch tomorrow? You can’t go on like this when strangers are here.”

With infinite care, her husband rose to his feet. Then he looked majestically round.

“I trust,” he said, “that my guests will lament their host’s. distress.” With that, he turned – just too sharply, and let out a roar of pain. “And now I’m stuck, good and proper. Afraid to move. Don’t sit there, staring, like so many Barbary apes. Get a litter or bier or something, to carry me on. But you’ll have to be very careful. No ‘by numbers’, thank you. I’ve got to be moved in one piece.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne.

“I’m not being absurd,” screamed her husband. “I tell you, I’m in a strait jacket. If a tiger burst into the room, I couldn’t withdraw.”

“I bet you’d try,” said Jill.

“You impious child,” said Berry. “You wicked, irreverent siren. Here am I, your overlord, for some inscrutable reason struck down in my prime, and, so far from succouring me, you actually deride a spectacle before which the very stones would cry out. That’s why I don’t go on the terrace. Supposing the flags were to rise up and call me blessed.”

Here the door was opened, and Falcon came in.

“Captain Rage is here, sir. If you can give him ten minutes, he will be much obliged.”

“Of course,” said Berry. “Show him into the library.”

“Very good, sir.”

As Falcon withdrew—

“Whatever’s the matter?” said Daphne. “It’s only just ten.”

“Heaven knows – with Toby. I only hope he hasn’t run somebody down.”

Toby Rage was a very good friend of ours. So was Mrs Medallion, Toby’s aunt. Toby was staying with her, some twenty miles off. The two were – dissimilar. Each had a heart of gold: but, while in Toby’s case this was evident, Mrs Medallion’s goodwill was not immediately apparent. Her outlook was strict, and she had not moved with the times: but Toby was up to date. His excellent aunt was proposing to make him her heir: in return, she demanded a behaviour which Toby did his best to observe.

Berry shuffled towards the door, in the wake of Daphne and Jill. I followed behind, to render such aid as I could.

As we gained the library—

“My dears,” said Toby, “I’m in it up to the chin – and, though you’ll hardly believe it, for once it is
not my fault
. I’ve been at Rokesby ten days, and I’ve never put a foot wrong. Family prayers at eight – I’ve always been on parade. Blood and tears for one, but I’ve never been late. I’ve never smoked in my bedroom; I’ve squired the Vicar’s daughters; I’ve taken the sack round in Church. You never saw such a show. There was I, at the end of the pew, when a beery wallah looms up with a velvet pouch. I tried to shove something in it, but he wouldn’t have that. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ says Aunt Ira. ‘He wants you to take it round.’ ‘But I’m not a lay-reader,’ says I. ‘The presumption is,’ says she, ‘you’re an honest man. Accept it at once.’ You know, I’m not made for such things… And now, when I’ve flown all these fences, an onlooker crosses the course an’ brings me down.”

“Expound, Sir Belch,” said Berry. “How can a stranger have put you wrong with the aunt?”

“Not his fault, either,” said Toby. “The old bogey means no wrong. But they’ve both of them got the stick by the dirty end. And I’m damned if I blame them – it’s fairly plastered with dung. But if they don’t drop it, I’m sunk. I give you my word, I’m half-way down the drain.”

As Berry let himself carefully into an easy chair—

“Toby dear,” said Daphne, “please give us the facts. You know that, if we can help—”

“You can’t do that,” said Toby. “Nobody can. But at least you will believe me: and that’s what I want. I have my faults as you know; but the widow an’ orphan are safe from blokes like me. And I don’t go about denuding elderly bogeys at dead of night. And that’s the offence I’m charged with – and what they believe I’ve done.”

I took Captain Rage by the shoulder and gave him a cigarette.

“And now come down,” I said. “We’ll have the high lights later. Tell us exactly what’s happened from first to last.”

“I expect you’re right,” said Toby. “Well, here we go.

“Aunt Ira’s solicitor is one Congreve of Bedford Row. He’s on the aged side, but a nice old duck. She won’t go to see him, so he has to come to her. He came down yesterday, said his piece in the evening and stayed the night. Have you ever been over Rokesby?”

We shook our heads.

“We know the ground floor,” said Daphne. “I have been upstairs, but I can’t remember the rooms.”

“Well, right at the end of the house, there’s a very old wing. Fifteenth century, I think, but it’s old as old. And there’s the hell of a chamber – it’s called the Arras Room. I’ll say it gives you the willies on Midsummer Day. Stone walls, hung with black arras from bottom to top: a huge four-poster, hung with black curtains again: and a yawning fireplace that looks like the mouth of Hell. Talk about deaths and burials… I wouldn’t have slept in that boudoir for a thousand golden pounds. I mean, it
must
be haunted. It issues a standing invitation to every ghost within range. If you ask me, the swine feel at home there. But that’s by the way.

“Now once, years ago, I stated this obvious fact. I said I thought it likely that apparitions frequented the Arras Room…” Toby covered his eyes and sighed. “I can still remember the scene that innocent chatter provoked. You might have thought I’d suggested that she should attend a celebration of the Black Mass. You see, Aunt Ira doesn’t believe in ghosts. More. For anyone who does, she has a violent contempt. That her own flesh and blood – to say nothing of her heir presumptive – should so much as toy with such a notion constituted a deadly insult to the ancient house of Rage.

“Well, I learned my lesson all right and from that day to this I’ve kept my beliefs to myself. From that day to this…”

Toby leaned forward.

“This morning I came down as usual at five to eight. But not to family prayers. These had been cancelled. Instead, the butler desires me to go to the drawing-room. There are Aunt Ira and Congreve, looking like blocks of black ice. When I asked what the trouble was, they spoke of shame and horror, of vulgar outrage and gross effrontery. ‘Monstrous’ and ‘abominable’ were among their epithets. In a word, it seemed very clear that I had given offence.

“Well, of course I’m used to Aunt Ira. She’s old and she’s built that way. Thorns to burn, but she’s been a good rose to me. But Congreve had no right to speak to me as he did. So I took him on. I said that he was a lawyer, and I was not; but that I’d always understood that it was a principle of law that, before a bloke was convicted, he should be informed of the charge. That shook him, I think, for he looked at me very hard. And then he stated his case.

“At half-past ten last night he retired – to the Arras Room. About half-past one this morning he woke, to find his feet cold. This was not surprising, because they were not covered up. The bed-clothes – sheet and blankets – had been untucked and turned back from the foot of the bed. Well, he thought that was very queer, but supposed that in his sleep he’d loosened and kicked them off. So he wraps up his toes again and goes back to sleep. At two o’clock he wakes up, to find the clothes going away – being drawn off his body and over the foot of the bed. He seizes the sheet and holds it with all his might: but the blankets go on – he feels them sliding away. And his sheet’s being pulled. He calls out, but nobody answers: and nobody hears him, of course, ’cause he’s too far off. There’s no electric light, so he gets a knee on the sheet and feels for a match. As he finds the box, the sheet goes away, and, when he can light his candle, there are the clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed. As he looks round the room, the candle goes out; and when he lights it again, there’s nobody there.

“That is Congreve’s tale; and I’ve not the slightest doubt that it’s perfectly true. That blasted room is haunted and always was; and some damned ghost or other was doing his stuff last night. But the point is
they think it was me.
Neither Aunt Ira nor Congreve can accept the supernatural: you might as well ask them to believe in a well-read giraffe. They are, therefore, forced to the conclusion that the outrage was committed by me. The servants, of course, are washed out – they’re all too old. But Captain Toby Rage… If history may be believed, some fifty years ago the practical joke was the vogue, and its most faithful exponent was the dashing young Guardsman. And Aunt Ira the Good and Congreve still live in seventy-five.

“Net result – Congreve is ‘inexpressibly pained and never would have believed’; Aunt Ira is ‘horrified and filled with the utmost disgust’ – and so incensed that she can hardly sit still; Toby is sunk. You see, it’s a matter of deduction. If it wasn’t a ghost, it was Toby: and as ghosts don’t exist, then it must have been me. And I went to bed at eleven, and never woke up till Sarah brought me my tea. Incidentally, you wouldn’t get me into the Arras Room after dark for any money.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“Has Congreve gone?” said Berry.

“You bet,” said Toby. “He had an appointment in Town at twelve o’clock. Besides, he’s a Will to alter. What do I do?”

“You go back and take your leave – very respectfully, of course. You feel that you cannot stay any longer in a house in which your solemn word is disbelieved. Even your aunt’s house. If ever she should have occasion to vary the unhappy conclusion to which she has come, nothing will give you greater pleasure than to return.”

“She won’t,” said Toby. “Why should she? You know, I don’t blame the old girl. She doesn’t
want
to think that I have insulted her guest, but her outlook leaves her no alternative. If someone could shake her conviction that ghosts do not exist—”

“I hope they will,” said Berry, “almost at once.” We all regarded him. “Tomorrow two eminent men are coming to lunch with us. One is a distinguished art-critic: the other is Wrotham, the well-known architect. Wrotham we know – slightly; and a very nice fellow he is. But we don’t know Basing at all, except by repute. For all that, here and now, I’m going to ring him up. You see, he’s not only a critic. He is also the president of some society or other that believes in and investigates the activities of what are called ghosts.”