Highland Fling (23 page)

Albert considered.

‘No, I suppose we can’t. Hadn’t we better put him into a taxi and send him home? I expect we could carry him between us, Walter; or if he’s too heavy I’ll call the commissionaire to help.’

They advanced upon the admiral, Walter taking his shoulders and Albert his legs, and half-carried, half-dragged him to the street. Jane hailed a taxi into which they bundled him and shut the door.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Oh! Walter, where does he live?’

‘How should I know? I haven’t an idea.’

‘Well, where shall we send him?’

Silence.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Walter. ‘Isn’t there a special place somewhere for admirals? Now what
is
it called? Oh, yes! I remember, of course.’

He gave the taxi-driver half-a-crown and said:

‘Take this gentleman to the Admiralty, please.’

The front page of next morning’s
Daily Runner
was full of interest to members of the recent house-party at Dalloch Castle. Jane read it, as she always did, while breakfasting in bed; and for once in her life she pored over its columns with absolutely breathless attention, reading every word, instead of merely skimming down the more sensational columns and then turning over to see if she was mentioned in the gossip page, which I regret to say was her usual method. Today, the first paragraph which met her eye was:

We regret to announce that Lord Prague, GCB, CVO, etc., was found dead late last night in the House of Lords. It is stated that his body was discovered just before midnight by Mr George Wilson, the night watchman.

Mr Wilson, when interviewed by the
Daily Runner
, said:

“I always go into the House at least once during the night to clear up any pieces of paper, orange peel, or empty bottles that happen to have been left underneath the seats. I had been tidying for some time last night when I noticed the figure of a man half-lying on one of the benches. This did not really
surprise me, as the peers often sleep on late into the night after a debate. So I went up to him and said: ‘Twelve o’clock, m’lord. Can I get you a cup of tea?’ He took no notice and, thinking he was fast asleep, I was going to let him stay there till morning when something in his attitude made me pause and look at him more closely. I then realized that he was stone dead, so I went and fetched a policeman.”

Mr Wilson was much shaken by his experience and says that although he has often known the peers to die in the corridors and refreshment rooms of the House he cannot recall one to have died in the House itself before.

Dr McGregor, who was called in by the police, said that death, which was due to heart failure, had taken place some six or seven hours previously: therefore Lord Prague must have passed away in the middle of the debate on Subsidized Potatoes (which is reported on page 13).

It was stated at an early hour this morning that Lady Prague is utterly prostrated with grief.

Lord Rainford, a cousin of the late peer, said in an interview:

“I saw Prague for a moment yesterday afternoon, and he seemed in his usual good form. It has been a terrible shock to all of us, and the loss to the nation will be irreparable.”

Absalom More, fourth Baron Prague, was born in 1838. Educated at Eton and Sandhurst, he first distinguished himself as a boy of eighteen in the Crimea, where he earned the soubriquet of Dashing More – true to his family motto,
More to the Fore
. When peace had been declared he was warmly applauded by Queen Victoria, with whom he was always a great favourite. In 1859 he succeeded to the title on the death of his father, and in 1860 he married one of the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting, Lady Anastasia Dalloch, daughter of the Earl of
Craigdalloch; who died in 1909. In 1910 he married as his second wife, Florence, daughter of Mr Leonard Jackson of Dombey Hall, Leicestershire, who survives him. Both marriages are childless, and the peerage devolves upon a distant cousin, Mr Ivanhoe More, of Victoria Road, Kensington.

The very deepest sympathy will go out to Lady Prague, but her sorrow must needs be tempered by the thought that Dashing More died as he would have wished to die – in harness.

Jane was entranced by this piece of news and read the paragraph over and over again. She was just about to turn to the back page for the promised picture when her eye was caught by:

NOT FUNNY –
G
ENERAL
M
URGATROYD
.

It is felt that the Bright Young People have had their day and that their jokes, often in the worst possible taste, should come to an end. Yesterday afternoon a “Mock Funeral” was held in the London Necropolis at Brookwood, where a site had been purchased in the name of Mrs Bogus Bottom to hold the remains of Bogus Bottom, Esq. The funeral cortège, including six carriages full of weeping “mourners”, travelled for several miles through the London streets, often causing the traffic to be delayed while it passed, and finally boarded the special Necropolis train. At Brookwood the coffin was reverently conveyed to the graveside and was just going to be lowered carefully into the grave, when the lid opened, and Mr Julius Raynor stepped out of it, dressed as for tennis. The “mourners”
then picked up the wreaths, which were numerous and costly, and fled to waiting motor-cars.

The
Daily Runner
, feeling that the only way to stop these heartless pranks is by means of public opinion, sent an interviewer to the following representative men and women, who have not scrupled to express their disapproval:

Miss Martha Measles
(well-known novelist):

“I have never heard that it is either clever or amusing to jest with Death.…”

Sir Holden Crane
(sociologist):

“If these young people would bear more children, they would hardly have the time for such foolishness.…”

Bishop of Burford:

“I think it most shameful, especially as I hear that many people doffed their hats to the cortège as it passed through London.…”

Mr Southey Roberts
(satirist):

“Are these people either “Bright” or “Young”?…”

General Murgatroyd:

“It’s a damned nuisance, and not funny.…”

It is understood that the authorities at Brookwood are taking action, and they are very anxious to know the address of Mrs Bogus Bottom.’

Jane now turned to the back page and was rewarded by a photograph of Lord Prague in youth; and one of Julius Raynor, a ghastly figure dressed entirely in white, leaping from his coffin.

She then casually glanced at the middle page, where her
attention was rooted by a photograph of Albert and a paragraph headed:

Mr Albert Gates (herewith) has astounded the art critics and half social London with his exhibition of amazing pictures (now on view at the Chelsea Galleries). They are composed in many cases round real objects stuck to the canvas, such as, for instance, eyeglasses, buttons, hats, and even surgical limbs; and are of a brilliance and novelty impossible to describe, particularly No. 15,
The Absinthe Drinker
, which it is rumoured, has been bought for the Nation by Mr Isaac Manuel. Another interesting picture is entitled:
Impression of Lady P –
and is executed entirely in bits of tweed cut into small squares. This is framed in beige mackintosh.

Mr Gates, who left Oxford four years ago, and has since been studying art in Paris, is a tall, good-looking young man of a modest disposition. When a
Daily Runner
representative called on him after the private view of his pictures yesterday, he seemed unaware of the sensation his work has caused in art circles. “I think it was quite a good party,” he said, referring to the private view.

Mr Gates recently became engaged to Miss Jane Dacre, the beautiful daughter of Sir Hubert and Lady Dacre of Stow-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire.’

Jane, on reading this, became very thoughtful. She was not at all sure that she liked this sudden blaze of fame which had come so unexpectedly upon Albert. The picture which she had framed in her mind of their married life had been imagined without this
new factor. She had thought of herself as being all in all to him: his one real friend, sticking to him through thick and thin, encouraging, praising and helping. Much as she admired, or thought she admired, Albert’s work herself, it had never occurred to her that he might have a real success with the critics; she had imagined that such revolutionary ideas would remain unnoticed for years, except by a few of the ultramoderns.