Berry Scene (22 page)

With the tail of my eye, I saw Walter stop in his tracks. Then he turned round, to make his way back to the car.

“See him off,” I said to Nobby, and grabbed The Bold.

That Walter had no lumbago was just as well. Nobby gave tongue as he landed, two inches from Walter’s heels. I have seldom seen a back hollowed with such efficiency. But a horse laugh from his chauffeur seemed to send the blood to his head. He shook his fist at the man and then launched a kick at Nobby that would have done credit to any goalkeeper. As well launch a kick at a fire-fly or one of the swallows, darting below the eaves. While his foot was still in mid-air, the Sealyham bit him sharply in the calf of his other leg.

Their eyes now decently averted, Daphne and Jill were fairly shaking with mirth, but Berry’s mouth never twitched. For me, the most humorous feature was Walter’s chauffeur’s delight. Leaning well out of his window, the fellow let himself go, laughing as a clod at a circus, when a clown sits down on a chair that has been withdrawn. That this should enrage his master was natural enough; and, ignoring the stream of instruction released by his wife, Walter turned upon his servant and rent him savagely.

His back being turned towards us, we could not hear what he said; but, so far from mending his manner, the chauffeur laughed the more and then indicated Nobby, who was considerately waiting till his prey should be disengaged.

“I should ’ave that one,” he jeered. “’E’s taken a fency to you.”

Such provocation was dreadful, and must, I felt, be followed by battery: but Walter had a shot in his locker he had not used.

What he said, I do not know; but the statement stung his servant, as no reproaches had done.

In a flash the door was open and the chauffeur was down in the drive. As his master recoiled before him, Mrs Walter emerged, screaming – a lady of many inches and worthy, in other respects, of Walter’s love. And as the three joined issue, a police car came to rest, ten paces away.

Superintendent Fellows appeared, with the local sergeant behind.

There was no mistaking his words – Fellows had mastered the art of producing his voice.

“What’s all this?”

The disputants started and turned. Then they stated their cases, each doing his best to shout the other down.

The Superintendent let fly.

“This isn’t the Mile End Road. You can’t behave like this in private grounds. You’d better come to the station and settle it there. Get back in your car and follow the police car out.”

As a constable turned the police car, his superiors shepherded the trio into the limousine. Not without many protests, which gave way to recrimination, when the former were found to be vain.

“Now you done it,” bawled the chauffeur.

Master and mistress were at pains to refute the charge.

As the sergeant took his seat by the chauffeur, Fellows crossed the lawn and put a hand to his hat.

“Good evening, madam. Good evening, sir. I happened to be at the station when you rang up. As long as they go, I take it that’s all you want.”

“That’s all, Superintendent. Sorry to bring you round.”

“I’m very glad I was there, sir. I expect the lady’s the trouble. The money goes to their heads. And the husband’s life isn’t worth living, unless he backs her up.”

Which goes to show that Fellows knew his world.

As the cortège disappeared—

“If anyone can tell me,” said Berry, “why we should be selected to be the butts of wallahs like Walter and Coker Falk – I mean, we seem to attract them. This place is becoming a resort of predatory skunks. Of course, such conduct was unheard-of before the war: but now, because somebody fancies what we possess, they dare to enter our grounds and demand that we shall humour their filthy desires.” Mechanically he lowered his voice. “As a matter of hard fact, this dog business might have been damned awkward. If they’d said the dog had been lost a month ago…

“He was much smaller then,” said Daphne. “And nobody could have known him ninety yards off.”

“I know, I know,” said Berry. “But if they’d pursued the matter, we should have had a nice case. ‘We’re looking after the dog for a friend of ours. Yes, the friend is away… Oh, I think he’ll be back soon, but I know he’s very busy just now… Well, care of The Governor, His Majesty’s Prison, Brooch, will always find him. Yes, it’s a funny address, isn’t it? No, I’m afraid I don’t know his name…’ Talk about prejudice. We couldn’t have come into court.”

“I suppose,” said my sister slowly, “ I suppose it is all right. I mean…”

“I suppose so,” said Berry.

“Anyway,” said Jill, “he’s much better off with us. Even if he is their dog, they don’t even know when they lost him. And I’m sure they’d give him chocolates and things like that.”

“I’ll make you two bets,” said I. “The first is that the Chinaman claims him, when he has done his time. The second is that, when he sees how he is living, he asks us to keep The Bold. If he does that, it will prove that the dog is his.”

“And there’s wisdom,” said Berry. “Well, we shall see. But I’m not going to take either bet, for the odds are too long.”

At eleven the following morning Mrs Medallion called.

“I might have known,” she declared, “that my nephew would come to you.”

“I hope,” said Daphne, “I hope you’re glad that he did.”

“Of course I am, my dear. You’re desirable company.” The lady surveyed us. “And so you’ve entered the ring?”

“Not on your life,” said Berry. “As Basing was coming to lunch here, I naturally put him in touch with Congreve, before he came. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s my duty to humour my guests?”

Mrs Medallion looked at him very hard.

“Your interpretation,” she said, “of the laws of hospitality is wide indeed.”

My brother-in-law swallowed.

“We, er, do our best,” he said.

Mrs Medallion frowned.

“Do you subscribe to this preposterous trash?”

“We’re forced to,” said Daphne quickly. “I mean, Mr Congreve and Toby are, both of them, men of their word.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Medallion, “I have always sought to be just. But I must decline to let sentiment warp my sense. Only a mind diseased could credit an apparition with common assault.”

Jill took her seat on the arm of the lady’s chair.

“We’ve all heard ghost stories,” she said. “Whether they’re true or not, I couldn’t say. But we’ve heard them told and sometimes we’ve read them in books. And in some of the worst ones, people have been found hurt.” Mrs Medallion stiffened. “Mr Congreve was shamefully treated: and he might have caught a very bad cold. Supposing – just supposing that he had been actually harmed. Almost smothered, or something. Then you’d have
known
that Toby wasn’t to blame.”

Mrs Medallion looked up at my cousin’s eager face.

“My darling,” she said, “you’ve made a very good point. If Congreve had been choked, that Toby had done it would never have entered my head. But pranks stop short of grievous bodily harm… Years ago my nephew made an idle, wanton remark. He said it was his belief that the Arras Room was haunted. Well, I was greatly incensed. That my brother’s son should subscribe to so grotesque a belief provoked me very deeply, and I must confess I laid on. I well remember the scene, and Toby, of course, remembers it equally well. Then Congreve comes to stay, and, since the other rooms are being done up, I give instructions for him to be given the Arras Room. Here, then, is Toby’s chance to prove the truth of his contention. No harm would be done to Congreve, but I should have to accept the lawyer’s word.”

“That’s not like Toby,” said my sister.

Mrs Medallion swallowed.

“No,” she said. “It isn’t. I’ll give you that. And it isn’t like Toby to lie. And yet am I to believe that some supernatural agency committed a vulgar assault?”

“One moment,” said I. “From what you’ve just said, I gather that, if another room had been available, you would not have had Mr Congreve put in the Arras Room. If I am not impertinent, may I ask why?”

Mrs Medallion frowned.

“A family prejudice,” she said. “My grandfather’s grandfather died there in 1754.”

“That was Rage of Chelsea?” said Berry.

“So he was called. The room was hung in black for his obsequies, and, for some reason or other, the arras was never changed.” The lady’s chin went up. “I see you know the reason.”

“I can guess it,” said Berry. “What I did not know was that he died in that room.”

I knew the story, too.

When he was growing old, Rage of Chelsea had married a second wife. At the time of his death, his son and heir was away, and before he could get to Rokesby, the dead man was under ground. That the funeral had been hurried seems to have been beyond doubt. After hearing the report of the servants, her step-son accused the widow of causing his father’s death. Poison. No proceedings were taken, but the widow had left the country within the month.

“Are you going to suggest that he haunts it?”

“No,” said Berry, “I’m not. But I do observe that you honour ‘a family prejudice’.”

“That,” said Mrs Medallion, “is perfectly true. But you don’t have to sleep in the cupboard in which your skeleton lies.”

“Why not?” said Berry.

“Because decency forbids. Rightly or wrongly, the room was preserved as a mortuary chapel.”

“Surely wrongly,” said Berry. “Half the bedrooms in England would be preserved, if a bedroom couldn’t be used because someone or other had died within its walls.”

“The presumption in this case is that Rage of Chelsea died an unnatural death. The hangings record this notion.”

“Which you accepted and honoured, until last Sunday night.”

“That,” said Mrs Medallion, “is perfectly true. Since I returned to Rokesby, no one has occupied that room. Had it been convenient, they would have – be sure of that. But as, until Congreve came, there were other rooms, the Arras Room has not been occupied.” She threw a defiant look round. “I suppose you think you’ve cornered me now.”

“By no means,” said Berry. “But I think it will interest Basing, if I may tell him these facts. I mean, it’s down his street.”

“What a singularly sordid expression – ‘down his street’. By the way, what is his street?”

“He’s a fellow of Magdalen,” said Berry. “At least he used to be. But some years ago he deserted the cloister for the gallery. He is a great authority upon oil-painting. They call him in when somebody questions a Rembrandt – and then he finds a Durer under a Maes. I’ve never met the man, but Wrotham asked if he could bring him. We’ve got a Claude he’s heard of, and—”

“Not George Wrotham – the architect?”

“That’s right.”

“Bless my soul,” said Mrs Medallion. “I used to play with George Wrotham when I was ten years old. They lived two doors from us in Curzon Street. Send him along with Basing – I’d like to see him again.” That the stars were fighting for Toby was very clear. “And now go on about Basing.”

“His profession of critic apart, he has for some years displayed an interest in what some people call the supernatural. He has visited many houses which have the reputation of having haunted rooms. He has investigated their, er, attributes. As a result, he has formed certain conclusions. What these are, I don’t know. But I know that a case like this would interest him no end. If he thinks Toby’s guilty, he’ll say so – be sure of that.”

“And I’m to accept what ever this expert says?”

“Certainly not,” said Berry. “But I hope that you’ll weigh his conclusions, because he has studied these things – but we have not.”

“He seems to have frightened Congreve.”

“To be perfectly frank,” said Berry, “I think he’s made Congreve think.”

“An operation which, in your case, would have been superfluous.”

“Yes,” said Berry boldly. “Because I know Toby Rage. Had Toby played this trick, he would never have come to us and told us the tale.”

Mrs Medallion winced.

“Another odious expression. Why the devil can’t you talk English? ‘Told us the tale.’ Never mind. I see your point. The accused consults his solicitor. Though Toby had lied to me, he’d never have lied to you.”

“Never,” said Jill stoutly.

Mrs Medallion rose.

“I must be going,” she said. “You four have made me uneasy – and that’s the truth. Have no fear that I shan’t recover. Before I’m back at Rokesby, I shall have hardened my heart. And when Basing comes, I’ll put him where he belongs.”

“What a vital expression,” said Berry. “‘Where he belongs.’”

Mrs Medallion glared. Then she sat down again, put a hand to her eyes and began to shake with laughter.

At ten o’clock that night, we heard the sound of a car. One minute later Basing was ushered into the library.

“I’m really ashamed,” he said, “to behave like this. A stranger uses White Ladies as though it were an hotel.”

“Counteract that impression,” said Daphne, “by staying on. And now sit down, Mr Basing, and give us your news.”

As I poured him a whiskey and soda—

“All’s very well,” said our guest. “By Mrs Medallion’s desire, Congreve has spoken this evening with Captain Rage. He’s going to see him tomorrow, and Captain Rage is returning the same afternoon.”

“Well done,” said everyone.

“To you the credit,” said Basing. “I may have carried the fortress, but you had breached the walls. The lady was not even hostile. I took care to tell her plainly that I could not prove what I said. I could tell her what I believed and must leave it at that. Congreve was very helpful, and Sir George was a tower of strength.”

“What do you believe?” said Berry.

“I believe that Rage of Chelsea met his death by poison at the hand of his second wife. Now the poison which such a woman would be able to obtain was probably very fierce, and anyone seeing his features would know that the victim had died a violent death. In those days it was the fashion for the dead man to lie in state in the chamber in which he died. While the body was there, the household and tenants were marshalled and passed through the room. And now mark this. The features of the corpse were exposed…

“My belief is this – that in this particular case the features were
not
exposed, because they would have declared that Rage of Chelsea had died a violent death. I believe that the sheet was drawn up and over the face. That was, no doubt, the ‘report’ which the servants made – upon which the son and heir accused his step-mother.