Gaudy Night (49 page)

Harriet expressed due appreciation of this anecdote, which was delivered with a great deal of gusto, and took leave of Padgett. For some reason, this affair of a mop and a bucket seemed to have made Padgett Peter’s slave for life. Men were very odd.

There was nobody under the Hall arches as she returned, but as she passed the West end of the Chapel, she thought she saw something dark pass like a shadow into the Fellows’ Garden. She followed it. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the dimness of the summer night and she could see the figure walking swiftly up and down, up and down, and hear the rustle of its long skirt upon the grass.

There was only one person in College who had worn a trailing frock that evening, and that was Miss Hillyard. She walked in the Fellows’ Garden for an hour and a half.

Go tell that witty fellow, my godson, to get home. It is no season to fool it here!

—QUEEN ELIZABETH

“Lor’!” said the Dean.

She gazed with interest from the Senior Common Room window, teacup in hand.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Miss Allison.

“Who is that incredibly beautiful young man?”

“Flaxman’s fiancé, I expect, isn’t it?”

“A beautiful young man?” said Miss Pyke. “I should like to see him.” She moved to the window.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Dean. “I know Flaxman’s Byron by heart. This is an ash-blond in a House blazer.”

“Oh, dear me!” said Miss Pyke. “Apollo Belvedere in spotless flannels. He appears to be unattached. Remarkable.”

Harriet put down her cup and rose from the depths of the largest armchair. “Perhaps he belongs to that bunch playing tennis,” hazarded Miss Allison. “Little Cooke’s scrubby friends? My
dear!
”

“Why all the excitement, anyway?” asked Miss Hillyard.

“Beautiful young men are always exciting,” said the Dean.

“That,” said Harriet, at length getting a glimpse of the wonder-youth over Miss Pyke’s shoulder, “is Viscount Saint-George.”

“Another of your aristocratic friends?” asked Miss Barton.

“His nephew,” replied Harriet; not very coherently.

“Oh!” said Miss Barton. “Well, I don’t see why you need all gape at him like a lot of schoolgirls.”

She crossed over to the table, cut herself a slice of cake and glanced casually out of the farther window.

Lord Saint-George stood, with a careless air of owning the place, at the corner of the Library Wing, watching a game of tennis being played between two bare-backed students and two young men whose shirts kept on escaping from their belts. Growing tired of this, he sauntered past the windows towards Queen Elizabeth, his eye roving over a group of Shrewsburians a-sprawl under the beeches, like that of a young Sultan inspecting a rather unpromising consignment of Circassian slaves.

“Supercilious little beast!” thought Harriet; and wondered if he was looking for her. If he was, he could wait, or ask properly at the Lodge. “Oho!” said the Dean. “So
that’s
how the milk got into the coconut!” From the door of the Library Wing there issued slowly Miss de Vine, and behind her, grave and deferential, Lord Peter Wimsey. They skirted the tennis-court in earnest conversation. Lord Saint-George, viewing them from afar, advanced to meet them. They joined forces on the path. They stood for a little time talking. They moved away towards the Lodge.

“Dear me!” said the Dean. “Abduction of Helen de Vine by Paris and Hector.”

“No, no,” said Miss Pyke. “Paris was the brother of Hector, not his nephew. I do not think he had any uncles.”

“Talking of uncles,” said the Dean, “is it true. Miss Hillyard, that Richard III—I thought she was here.”

“She
was
here,” said Harriet.

“Helen is being returned to us,” said the Dean. “The siege of Troy is postponed.”

The trio were returning again up the path. Half-way along Miss de Vine took leave of the two men and returned towards her own room.

At that moment, the watchers in the S.C.R. were petrified to behold a portent. Miss Hillyard emerged from the foot of the Hall stair, bore down upon the uncle and nephew, addressed them, cut Lord Peter neatly off from his convoy and towed him firmly away towards the New Quad.

“Glory
alleluia!
” said the Dean. “Hadn’t you better go out and rescue your young friend? He’s been deserted again.”

“You could offer him a cup of tea,” suggested Miss Pyke. “It would be an agreeable diversion for us.”

“I’m surprised at you. Miss Pyke,” said Miss Barton. “No man is safe from women like you.”

“Now, where have I heard that sentiment before?” said the Dean.

“In one of the Poison-letters,” said Harriet.

“If you’re suggesting—” began Miss Barton.

“I’m only suggesting,” said the Dean, “that it’s a bit of a cliché.”

“I meant it for a joke,” retorted Miss Barton, angrily. “Some people have no sense of humour.”

She went out and slammed the door. Lord Saint-George had wandered back and was sitting in the loggia leading up to the Library. He rose politely as Miss Barton stalked past him on the way to her room, and made some remark, to which the Fellow replied briefly, but with a smile.

“Insinuating men, these Wimseys,” said the Dean. “Vamping the S.C.R. right and left.”

Harriet laughed, but in Saint-George’s quick, appraising glance at Miss Barton she had again seen his uncle look for a moment out of his eyes. These family resemblances were unnerving. She curled herself into the window-seat and watched for nearly ten minutes. The viscount sat still, smoking a cigarette, and looking entirely at his ease. Miss Lydgate, Miss Burrows and Miss Shaw came in and began to pour out tea. The tennis-party finished the set and moved away. Then, from the left, came a quick, light step along the gravel walk.

“Hullo!” said Harriet to the owner of the step.

“Hullo!” said Peter. “Fancy seeing you here! He grinned. “Come and talk to Gerald. He’s in the loggia.”

“I see him quite plainly,” said Harriet. “His profile has been much admired.”

“As a good adopted aunt, why didn’t you go and be kind to the poor lad?”

“I never was one to interfere. I keep myself
to
myself.”

“Well, come now.”

Harriet got down from the window-seat and joined Wimsey outside.

“I brought him here,” said Peter, “to see if he could make any identifications. But he doesn’t seem able to.”

Lord Saint-George greeted Harriet enthusiastically.

“There was another female went past me,” he said, turning to Peter. “Grey hair badly bobbed. Earnest manner. Dressed in sack-cloth. Institutional touch about her. I got speech of her.”

“Miss Barton,” said Harriet.

“Right sort of eyes; wrong sort of voice. I don’t think it’s her. It might be the one that collared you. Uncle. She had a kind of a lean and hungry look.”

“H’m!” said Peter. “How about the first one?”

“I’d like to see her without her glasses.”

“If you mean Miss de Vine,” said Harriet, “I doubt whether she could see very far without them.”

“That’s a point,” said Peter, thoughtfully.

“I’m sorry to be so vague and all that,” said Lord Saint-George. “But it’s not easy to identify a hoarse whisper and a pair of eyes seen once by moonlight.”

“No,” said Peter, “it needs a good deal of practice.”

“Practice be blowed,” retorted his nephew. “I’m not going to make a practice of it.”

“It’s not a bad sport,” said Peter. “You might take it up till you can start games again.”

“How’s the shoulder getting on?” inquired Harriet.

“Oh, not too bad, thanks. The massage bloke is working wonders with it. I can lift the old arm shoulder-high now. It’s quite serviceable—for some things.”

By way of demonstration he threw the damaged arm round Harriet’s shoulders, and kissed her rapidly and expertly before she could dodge him.

“Children, children!” cried his uncle, plaintively, “remember where you are.”

“It’s all right for
me,
” said Lord Saint-George. “I’m an adopted nephew. Isn’t that right, Aunt Harriet?”

“Not bang underneath the windows of the S.C.R.,” said Harriet.

“Come round the corner, then,” said the viscount, impenitently, “and I’ll do it again. As Uncle Peter says, these things need a good deal of practice.” He was impudently set upon tormenting his uncle, and Harriet felt extremely angry with him. However, to show annoyance was to play into his hands. She smiled upon him pityingly and uttered the Brasenose porter’s classic rebuke:

“It’s no good you making a noise, gentlemen. The Dean ain’t a-coming down tonight.”

This actually silenced him for the moment. She turned to Peter, who said:

“Have you any commissions in Town?”

“Why, are you going back?”

“I’m running up tonight and on to York in the morning. I expect to get back on Thursday.”

“York?”

“Yes; I want to see a man there—about a dog, and all that.”

“Oh, I see. Well—if it wouldn’t be out of your way to call at my flat, you might take up a few chapters of manuscript to my secretary. I’d rather trust you than the post. Could you manage it?”

“With very great pleasure,” said Wimsey, formally.

She ran up to her room to get the papers, and from the window observed that the Wimsey family was having the matter out with itself. When she came down with the parcel, she found the nephew waiting at the door of Tudor, rather red in the face.

“Please, I am to apologise.”

“I should think so,” said Harriet, severely. “I can’t be disgraced like this in my own quad. Frankly, I can’t afford it.”

“I’m most frightfully sorry,” said Lord Saint-George. “It was rotten of me. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking of anything except getting Uncle Peter’s goat. And if it’s any satisfaction to you,” he added, ruefully, “I got it.”

“Well, be decent to him; he’s very decent to you.”

“I will be good,” said Peter’s nephew, taking the parcel from her, and they proceeded amicably together till Peter rejoined them at the Lodge.

“Damn that boy,” said Wimsey, when he had sent Saint-George ahead to start up the car.

“Oh, Peter, don’t worry about every little thing so dreadfully. What does it matter? He only wanted to tease you.”

“It’s a pity he can’t find some other way to do it. I seem to be a perfect mill-stone tied round your neck, and the sooner I clear out the better.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Harriet irritated. “If you’re going to be morbid about it, it certainly would be better for
you
if you
did
clear out. I’ve told you so before.”

Lord Saint-George, finding his elders dilatory, blew a cheerful “hi-tiddleyhi-ti, pom, pom” on the horn.

“Damn and blast!” said Peter. He took gate and path at a bound, pushed his nephew angrily out of the driving-seat, jerked the door of the Daimler to noisily and shot off up the road with a bellowing roar. Harriet, finding herself unexpectedly possessed of a magnificent fit of bad temper, went back, determined to extract the last ounce of enjoyment out of it; an exercise in which she was greatly helped by the discovery that the little episode on the loggia had greatly intrigued the Senior Common Room, and by learning from Miss Allison, after Hall, that Miss Hillyard, when she heard of it, had made some very unpleasant observations, which it was only right that Miss Vane should know about.

Oh, God! thought Harriet, alone in her room, what have I done, more than thousands of other people, except have the rotten luck to be tried for my life and have the whole miserable business dragged out into daylight?... Anybody would think I’d been punished enough.... But nobody can forget it for a moment.... I can’t forget it.... Peter can’t forget it.... If Peter wasn’t a fool he’d chuck it.... He must see how hopeless it all is.... Does he think I like to see him suffering vicarious agonies?... Does he really suppose I could ever marry him for the pleasure of seeing him suffer agonies?...Can’t he see that the only thing for me to do is to keep out of it all?... What the devil possessed me to bring him to Oxford?... Yes—and I thought it would be so nice to retire to Oxford... to have “unpleasant observations” made about me by Miss Hillyard, who’s half potty, if you ask me.... Somebody’s potty, anyhow... that seems to be what happens to one if one keeps out of the way of love and marriage and all the rest of the muddle.... Well if Peter fancies I’m going to “accept the protection of his name” and be grateful, he’s damn well mistaken.... A nice, miserable business that’d be for him.... It’s a nice, miserable business for him, too, if he really wants me—if he does—and can’t have what he wants because I had the rotten luck to be tried for a murder I didn’t do.... It looks as if he was going to get hell either way.... Well, let him get hell, it’s his lookout.... It’s a pity he saved me from being hanged—he probably wishes by now he’d left me alone.... I suppose any decently grateful person would give him what he wants.... But it wouldn’t be much gratitude to make him miserable.... We should both be perfectly miserable, because neither of us could ever forget.... I very nearly did forget the other day on the river.... And I had forgotten this afternoon, only he remembered it first.... Damn that impudent little beast! how horribly cruel the young can be to the middle-aged!.,. I wasn’t frightfully kind myself... And I did know what I was doing.... It’s a good thing Peter’s gone... but I wish he hadn’t gone and left me in this ghastly place where people go off their heads and write horrible letters.... “When I am from him I am dead till I be with him.”... No, it won’t do to feel like that.... I won’t get mixed up with that kind of thing again.... I’ll stay out of it.... I’ll stay here... where people go queer in their heads.... Oh, God, what have I done, that I should be such a misery to myself and other people? Nothing more than thousands of women...

Round and round, like a squirrel in a cage, till at last Harriet had to say firmly to herself: This won’t do, or I shall go potty myself. I’d better keep my mind on the job. What’s taken Peter to York? Miss de Vine? If I hadn’t lost my temper I might have found out, instead of wasting time in quarrelling. I wonder if he’s made any notes on the dossier.