Christmas at Candleshoe (23 page)

Miss Candleshoe draws herself up. ‘Lord Scattergood, I can well believe that you are in trouble again with your bitches. But need I be concerned in the matter?’

‘Bitches, Miss Candleshoe?’ Lord Scattergood is scandalized and bewildered.

‘I presume that Leda and Lollia
are
bitches?’

‘God bless my soul! Leda’s a woman, Miss Candleshoe; and Lollia is too.’

‘Ah – forgive me. I had supposed your concern was over
canine
bitches. My late brother, Sir James, frequently remarked to me that you had no happiness whatever with hounds. But if you are in trouble with
women
, Lord Scattergood, is there between us that degree of intimacy which would justify your appealing to
me
?’

It seems to Mrs Feather that Lord Scattergood, who is a florid man, is possibly going to suffer a stroke. He merely, however, turns to his companion. ‘Archdeacon, will you be so good as to take this matter over? I’m damned if I can trust myself to say at all the proper thing.’

‘Certainly, Marquess. Miss Candleshoe, let me be brief. It must be within the scope–’

‘On second thoughts, I think I’ll carry on myself.’ Lord Scattergood thus changes his mind with what, to Mrs Feather, is inexplicable haste. ‘The plain fact, ma’am, is that I’ve come for my Titians. So, I understand, have some rascally thieves who have also traced them here. We needn’t – need we? – go at all deeply into the affair. Just take it that the time has come for the Titians to go back to Benison.’ Lord Scattergood pauses hopefully, and then a further inspiration comes to him, ‘And if you’d care yourself to have those deuced good copies–’

But Miss Candleshoe has turned to her chaplain. ‘Mr Armigel,’ she says, ‘do my ears deceive me?’

‘I fear not.’ Mr Armigel is polishing his spectacles, as if preparatory to some distasteful but necessary scrutiny of the visitors. ‘I fear that Lord Scattergood has appeared at this extraordinary hour for the sole purpose of putting forward an extravagant claim to the Candleshoe Titians. The paintings he has in mind appear to be those of which copies are well known to be exhibited at Benison. Lord Scattergood, in fact, has fallen into some sad confusion in this matter. Should he care to return at some more convenient time, I shall be happy to clear it up for him with the aid of the relevant family documents.’

‘Family documents!’ Mr Archdeacon at this can no longer contain himself; he produces his pipe and waves it wildly in the air. ‘May I ask, sir, if you are aware of the existence of the personal journals of William Spendlove, first Earl of Scattergood, in which the provenance of the Titians–’

‘And are you, Mr Archdeacon, familiar with the Candleshoe Papers?’

‘The Candleshoe Papers? Certainly not! I never heard of them.’

‘Precisely. They show conclusively that in the year 1721 Squire Candleshoe very properly took over the custody of certain Italian paintings which had been acquired by his son–’

‘Nonsense, sir – contemptible nonsense! You know very well that the Earl carried off the paintings to Benison.’

‘So the Earl thought.’ Mr Armigel, conceivably because his invention is flagging, pauses to take a pinch of snuff. ‘In point of fact, the Squire defeated the tiresome importunity of the Earl by permitting him to make off with two indifferent copies. I was most interested in the copies, Mr Archdeacon, when you sent them to be stored here during the war.’

‘Lies, sir – impudent and impotent lies!’ Mr Archdeacon is now considerably more florid than his employer. ‘No forgeries existed, as you very well know, until you yourself took dastardly advantage of being entrusted with the originals, and exploited your previous profession in order to perpetrate a disgraceful fraud. You copied the Titians, sent copies back to us, and are concealing the originals in this house now… Bless me – what was that?’

It is not without due occasion – Mrs Feather has to acknowledge – that the Marquess of Scattergood’s librarian thus abruptly suspends his doubtless just denunciation of Miss Candleshoe’s domestic chaplain. A tremendous concussion has shaken the house to its massive foundations; a cloud of dust has risen from the floor; and from the wainscotted walls there is now tumbling and clattering a generous assortment of paintings, pikes, muskets, boars’ heads, and suits of armour. A second concussion follows the first, and this is too much for a considerable portion of the elaborate plaster ceiling, which promptly deposits itself to the extent of a ton or so of debris just behind the spot upon which Lord Scattergood and Mr Archdeacon are standing.

Mrs Feather supposes an earthquake, and feels a sharp resentment that providence should thus visit Candleshoe when it appears to be within her grasp. As the dust disperses she sees the extent of the damage already occasioned, and reckons that a third or fourth tremor must bring down the whole tottering edifice in ruin. Mr Archdeacon, she notices, is behaving in an extraordinary way; he has picked up one of the fallen pikes and thrust it within the hands of Lord Scattergood; and now, with surprising agility, he is similarly providing himself with a broadsword and a shield. Thus equipped, Mr Archdeacon has all the appearance of a mythological personage addressing himself to the affair with the gods. Mrs Feather is a good deal impressed by this manner of taking arms against a natural visitation. Mr Archdeacon’s defiance, however – which now takes the form of a bellow of rage – proves to be directed not against the heavens but against the Candleshoe faction as it still confronts him. The librarian, in fact, is under the impression that he and his employer have been the specific object of lethal attack by some monstrous engine; and he is proposing, at the sword’s point, to seek immediate satisfaction. His advance upon Mr Armigel with this intent is only prevented by a third tremendous impact, followed by the sudden reappearance of Lord Arthur Spendlove, who shouts at his father across the hall.

‘They’ve got a tank!’

This announcement – as might be expected – commands attention and a moment’s silence. Lord Scattergood sets his pike carefully against the wall. ‘A tank, my dear boy? Who have a tank?’

‘The thieves – the fellows who are after our pictures.’

‘Nonsense, Arthur. They can’t have a tank. Such things simply aren’t sold. You cause Miss Candleshoe unnecessary alarm.’

‘Didn’t you hear it? They’re using it to break into the library, which is less massive than the older parts of the house. And you don’t need to buy a tank. You simply borrow one. At this time of year they are parked all over the place.’

‘I call that a very scandalous thing. I shall take the matter up with the War Office.’ Lord Scattergood reaches for his pike again, and then addresses Miss Candleshoe. ‘Fortunately, ma’am, my boy here knows a thing or two about tanks. Played about with them a lot in the desert. Can show us the vulnerable spots, you know. Just let me get this through a slit’ – and Lord Scattergood flourishes his weapon with fine confidence – ‘and – by gad! – I’ll tickle them up a bit… There they go again.’

It is true that Candleshoe has taken yet another pounding. This time, a substantial piece of timber comes down virtually on Mr Armigel’s toes. He looks at it in mild perplexity and turns to Miss Candleshoe. ‘There can be little doubt that we are confronted with some obscure and untoward situation. Would it be prudent, I wonder, to send for Jay?’

‘Certainly we must send for Jay.’ Miss Candleshoe is uncompromising. ‘Jay will compose this uproar, and assist the gentlemen from Benison to bed.’

‘To bed?’ Mr Armigel is puzzled.

‘Precisely. There can be no doubt whatever that they are in liquor. Even a Spendlove, one supposes, would scarcely break in upon a neighbour and behave in this destructive manner when sober. Drink, as my late brother Sir James used frequently to remark, has been the curse of that family. But that is no more than justice. For is it not well known that their fortunes were founded upon bottling ditch-water?’

Lord Scattergood and Mr Archdeacon, who have alike listened with mounting indignation to these monstrous aspersions, are plainly collecting themselves for spirited reply when Grant Feather runs into the hall. Arthur Spendlove turns to him. ‘It’s bad?’

‘I’ll say it is. They’ve got a mullion down, and they’re almost through. Jay says our best chance is to get up to the Long Gallery and hold the stair-heads. His friend Robin must have made the village some time ago, and help should be arriving pretty soon.’

‘Then up we go… Is this Jay?’

Jay has indeed followed Grant into the hall. The lantern he is carrying shows that his pallor has yielded to a faint flush. Mrs Feather suddenly sees in him a child who ought to have been tucked up and asleep hours ago. But Jay, if exhausted, has lost nothing of his peremptory manner. ‘Will you all, please, go straight up to the gallery at once? It’s the only part of the house we can now hope to hold.’ Having given this general direction, Jay walks straight on to Mr Armigel. ‘What is this, please, about two valuable pictures?’

‘Pictures, Jay?’ Thus challenged, the chaplain appears for the first time discomfited.

‘They say we are hiding two valuable old paintings, and that the thieves want them. Is this true?’

‘My dear Jay, this is a complicated matter. But it is true that we have – um – thought proper to detain at Candleshoe two paintings by Titian – a famous artist of whom you have doubtless heard – since their ownership is a circumstance of some family complication.’

‘Nothing of the sort.’ Mr Archdeacon breaks in with high indignation. ‘The Marquess’ title to the Titians is as plain as one of those pike-staffs.’

‘Where are the pictures now, please?’

‘Now, Jay?’

‘If we are to defend them, they must go with us to the Long Gallery this instant. I can’t guarantee another three minutes.’ At this, the commander of Candleshoe produces from some fold of his sombre garments a schoolboy’s large and innocent watch. ‘So choose.’

Mr Armigel hesitates – whereupon Lord Scattergood steps forward. ‘Where are the pictures, sir? Dash it all – would you have them go out of the family altogether, and be sold by a pack of thieves to some rascal in New York or Chicago?’

This well-calculated appeal has its effect. Mr Armigel glances at Miss Candleshoe, who almost imperceptibly nods. Then he turns back to Lord Scattergood. ‘The Candleshoe Titians? They are, in point of fact, lying at your feet. They tumbled from the wall not five minutes ago.’ Mr Armigel pauses to observe the effect produced by this startling intelligence, and is so heartened by what he sees as to break into a chuckle. ‘For the sake of decency and reticence, my dear Marquess, I have thought proper a little to obscure them beneath a sound brown varnish. The Leda might be a goose girl, and you can hardly discern that the Lollia is disrobed. But underneath, I assure you, the work of Titian will be found, wholly unimpaired.’

Lord Scattergood opens his mouth at this – but nobody is ever to know what observation he is proposing to make. Another and even more violent concussion is followed by a sound of falling masonry, the shouts of children, and footsteps in rapid withdrawal towards the hall. Mr Archdeacon, with a nicely balanced chivalry and sense of property, seizes the Leda with one hand and Miss Candleshoe with the other. Lord Scattergood snatches up the Lollia, Mr Armigel takes a lantern, and Grant and Arthur grab weapons for the purpose of fighting a rearguard action. Jay vanishes in the direction in which Candleshoe has been breached, intent upon rallying his forces and achieving an orderly retreat. In a twinkling the great hall is empty – or empty save for the wolf-hound Lightning, who has so far evinced singularly little interest in the night’s proceedings. And now Lightning, who has been lying in front of the empty fireplace, rises, yawns, stretches, and proceeds at leisure to join the perturbed humans now pounding and puffing their way upstairs to the Long Gallery.

The defence of this last fastness of Candleshoe is clearly a subject to which Jay has given considerable thought. The east staircase has been effectively sealed off long ago; here an attacker from below will finally be presented with a flat ceiling, the upper surface of which is so weighted with miscellaneous lumber that there is no possibility of forcing a way through it. The west staircase, up which the defenders have retreated, is left free and open. But a barricade has been moved into place at the top; and from this and from the uppermost landing the three final turns of the stair can be commanded by bowmen. It looks almost impregnable against any common assault. But Jay explains that there is a second line of defence. Should the stair-head have to be yielded, his force will retreat to the cover of the little stage at the east end of the gallery. From this position their bows will command what is virtually a long empty tunnel up which the enemy must advance. While their arrows last, and while they retain, too, a sufficiency of torches to cast some light upon the scene, they cannot be rushed without having the chance to inflict what ought to be annihilating casualties.

All this seems to Grant Feather to be a satisfactory state of affairs – and so is Jay’s announcement that he has sent his two youngest retainers to light and stoke a beacon on the roof. If the outer world is hesitating over what to make of Robin’s story – and it has occurred to Grant that it may well bear the appearance of implausible fantasy – the sight of this distant minor conflagration may well be a useful stimulant. Jay’s confidence in Robin seems to extend to Robin’s father, whom he judges certain to arrive with overwhelming forces long before these are seriously needed. Jay opens a window which he declares to command a distant view of the high road, and bids another henchman keep strict watch there for a long line of rapidly approaching cars. Grant wonders if Jay is quite as confident as he seems. It is certain that he has a flair for keeping up morale.

The tremendous blows upon the fabric of the building have ominously ceased, and there can be no doubt that the enemy now has the run of the house. But for a few minutes there is a lull in the gallery, and this usefully contributes to the composure of the company there assembled. Lord Scattergood and Miss Candleshoe, whom the pressure of events within the last fifteen minutes has impelled with miraculous speed to an appearance of unflawed family solidarity, are conversing in front of that odd alternative version of Admiral Candleshoe’s monument which goes by the name of the Christmas box. Miss Candleshoe pokes at it here and there with her ebony stick – possibly by way of emphasizing its artistic merits, or possibly with the vague notion of touching off the spring that shall send it flying magically open. Lord Scattergood, who is shrewdly convinced that there will be no more trouble over the Titians, and who is by nature incapable of a flicker of discomposure in face of any number of rascals and ruffians, shows high good humour. Mr Archdeacon, who has stowed away the Leda and the Lollia behind a pile of mouldering scenery on the stage, has obtained permission to light his pipe, and is now practising swordsmanship at the expense of one of those contraptions of wire and padding upon the generous contours of which Victorian ladies were accustomed to create additions to their wardrobe. When he is not observing with satisfaction the easy havoc wrought upon this dummy, his eye follows Jay with considerable curiosity up and down the gallery. Lord Arthur Spendlove and Mr Armigel are amicably occupied in testing the strength of the pikes with which they have armed themselves. The more powerful moiety of Jay’s juvenile army is at guard over the stair-head; the remainder are held in reserve upon the stage. Mrs Feather has the impression that she is the only person who is extremely frightened. She would like to lower the Titians on a cord through the window, call upon the criminals to take note and make off with them, and then herself pick up a couple of equivalent art treasures for Lord Scattergood on the open market. In all this Mrs Feather has not remotely in mind, indeed, either her own safety or her son’s. But she is profoundly shocked that these children have already been involved in one scene of violence, and that they may presently be precipitated into another which may conceivably become a fight to the death. Mrs Feather is aware however that nobody is going to support her in this view, and that in their several ways all her companions are delivered over to a sort of mild madness. But if she is unable to prevent further hostilities it is incumbent upon her to prepare for them. She has had the foresight to raid a bedroom on her way to the gallery, and is in possession of a pair of linen sheets. With these she now retires to an unobtrusive corner and proceeds to the manufacture of bandages.