Mulliner Nights (9 page)

‘Undone,’
repeated the Bishop hollowly. ‘To-night Lady Widdrington specifically informed
me that she wishes you to leave the house.’

Lancelot drew
in his breath sharply Natural optimist though he was, he could not minimize the
importance of this news.

‘She has
consented to allow you to remain for another two days, and then the butler has
instructions to pack your belongings in time for the eight-forty-five express.’

‘H’m!’ said
Lancelot.

‘H’m, indeed,’
said the Bishop. ‘This means that I shall be left alone and defenceless. And
even with you sedulously watching over me it has been a very near thing once or
twice. That afternoon in the summer-house!’

‘And that day
in the shrubbery,’ said Lancelot. There was a heavy silence for a moment.

‘What are you
going to do?’ asked Lancelot.

‘I must
think.., think,’ said the Bishop. ‘Well, good night, my boy.’

He left the
room with bowed head, and Lancelot, after a long period of wakeful meditation,
fell into a fitful slumber.

From this he
was aroused some two hours later by an extraordinary commotion somewhere
outside his room. The noise appeared to proceed from the hall, and, donning a
dressing-gown, he hurried out.

A strange
spectacle met his eyes. The entire numerical strength of Widdrington Manor
seemed to have assembled in the hall. There was Lady Widdrington in a mauve
nêgligê,
Mrs Pulteney-Banks in a system of shawls, the butler in pyjamas, a footman
or two, several maids, the odd-job man, and the boy who cleaned the shoes. They
were gazing in manifest astonishment at the Bishop of Bongo-Bongo, who stood,
fully clothed, near the front door, holding in one hand an umbrella, in the
other a bulging suit-case.

In a corner
sat the cat, Percy, swearing in a quiet undertone. As Lancelot arrived the
Bishop blinked and looked dazedly about him.

‘Where am I?’
he said.

Willing voices
informed him that he was at Widdrington Manor, Bottleby-in-the-Vale, Hants, the
butler going so far as to add the telephone number.

‘I think,’
said the Bishop, ‘I must have been walking in my sleep.’

‘Indeed?’ said
Mrs Pulteney-Banks, and Lancelot could detect the dryness in her tone.

‘I am sorry to
have been the cause of robbing the household of its well-earned slumber,’ said
the Bishop nervously. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I now retired to my room.’

‘Quite,’ said
Mrs Pulteney-Banks, and once again her voice crackled dryly.

‘I’ll come and
tuck you up,’ said Lancelot.

‘Thank you, my
boy,’ said the Bishop.

Safe from
observation in his bedroom, the Bishop sank wearily on the bed, and allowed the
umbrella to fall hopelessly to the floor.

‘It is Fate,’
he said. ‘Why struggle further?’

‘What
happened?’ asked Lancelot.

‘I thought
matters over,’ said the Bishop, ‘and decided that my best plan would be to
escape quietly under cover of the night. I had intended to wire to Lady
Widdrington on the morrow that urgent matters of personal importance had
necessitated a sudden visit to London. And just as I was getting the front door
open I trod on that cat.’

‘Percy?’

‘Percy,’ said
the Bishop bitterly. ‘He was prowling about in the hall, on who knows what dark
errand. It is some small satisfaction to me in my distress to recall that I
must have flattened out his tail properly. I came down on it with my full
weight, and I am not a slender man. Well,’ he said, sighing drearily, ‘this is
the end. I give up. I yield.’

‘Oh, don’t say
that, uncle.’

‘I do say
that,’ replied the Bishop, with some asperity. ‘What else is there to say?’

It was a
question which Lancelot found himself unable to answer. Silently he pressed the
other’s hand, and walked out.

In Mrs
Pulteney-Banks’s room, meanwhile, an earnest conference was taking place.

‘Walking in
his sleep, indeed!’ said Mrs Pulteney-Banks.

Lady
Widdrington seemed to take exception to the older woman’s tone.

‘Why shouldn’t
he walk in his sleep?’ she retorted.

‘Why should
he?’

‘Because he
was worrying.’

‘Worrying!’
sniffed Mrs Pulteney-Banks.

‘Yes,
worrying,’ said Lady Widdrington, with spirit. ‘And I know why. You don’t
understand Theodore as I do.’

‘As slippery
as an eel,’ grumbled Mrs Pulteney-Banks. ‘He was trying to sneak off to London.’

‘Exactly,’
said Lady Widdrington. ‘To his cat. You don’t understand what it means to
Theodore to be separated from his cat. I have noticed for a long time that he
was restless and ill at ease. The reason is obvious. He is pining for Webster.
I know what it is myself. That time when Percy was lost for two days I nearly
went off my head. Directly after breakfast to-morrow I shall wire to Doctor
Robinson of Bott Street, Chelsea, in whose charge Webster now is, to send him
down here by the first train. Apart from anything else, he will be nice company
for Percy.’

‘Tchah!’ said
Mrs Pulteney-Banks.

‘What do you
mean, Tchah?’ demanded Lady Widdrington.

‘I mean Tchah,’
said Mrs Pulteney-Banks.

An atmosphere
of constraint hung over Widdrington Manor throughout the following day. The
natural embarrassment of the Bishop was increased by the attitude of Mrs
Pulteney-Banks, who had contracted a habit of looking at him over her zareba of
shawls and sniffing meaningly. It was with relief that towards the middle of
the afternoon he accepted Lancelot’s suggestion that they should repair to the
study and finish up what remained of their legal business.

The study was
on the ground floor, looking out on pleasant lawns and shrubberies. Through the
open window came the scent of summer flowers. It was a scene which should have
soothed the most bruised soul, but the Bishop was plainly unable to draw
refreshment from it. He sat with his head in his hands, refusing all Lancelot’s
well-meant attempts at consolation.

‘Those sniffs!’
he said, shuddering, as if they still rang in his ears. ‘What meaning they
held! What a sinister significance!’

‘She may just
have got a cold in the head,’ urged Lancelot.

‘No. The
matter went deeper than that. They meant that that terrible old woman saw
through my subterfuge last night. She read me like a book. From now on there
will be added vigilance. I shall not be permitted out of their sight, and the
end can be only a question of time. Lancelot, my boy,’ said the Bishop,
extending a trembling hand pathetically towards his nephew, ‘you are a young
man on the threshold of life. If you wish that life to be a happy one, always
remember this: when on an ocean voyage, never visit the boat-deck after dinner.
You will be tempted. You will say to yourself that the lounge is stuffy and
that the cool breezes will correct that replete feeling which so many of us
experience after the evening meal… you will think how pleasant it must be up
there, with the rays of the moon turning the waves to molten silver.., but don’t
go, my boy, don’t go!’

‘Right-ho,
uncle,’ said Lancelot soothingly.

The Bishop
fell into a moody silence.

‘It is not
merely,’ he resumed, evidently having followed some train of thought, ‘that, as
one of Nature’s bachelors, I regard the married state with alarm and concern.
It is the peculiar conditions of my tragedy that render me distraught. My lot
once linked to that of Lady Widdrington, I shall never see Webster again.’

‘Oh, come,
uncle. This is morbid.’

The Bishop
shook his head.

‘No,’ he said.
‘If this marriage takes place, my path and Webster’s must divide. I could not
subject that pure cat to life at Widdrington Manor, a life involving, as it
would, the constant society of the animal Percy. He would be contaminated. You
know Webster, Lancelot. He has been your companion — may I not almost say your
mentor? — for months. You know the loftiness of his ideals.’

For an
instant, a picture shot through Lancelot’s mind — the picture of Webster, as he
had seen him only a brief while since —standing in the yard with the backbone
of a herring in his mouth, crooning a war-song at the alley cat from whom he
had stolen the
bonne-bouche.
But he replied without hesitation.

‘Oh, rather.’

‘They are very
high.’

‘Extremely
high.’

‘And his
dignity,’ said the Bishop. ‘I deprecate a spirit of pride and self-esteem, but
Webster’s dignity was not tainted with those qualities. It rested on a clear
conscience and the knowledge that, even as a kitten, he had never permitted his
feet to stray. -I wish you could have seen Webster as a kitten, Lancelot.’

‘I wish I
could, uncle.’

‘He never
played with balls of wool, preferring to sit in the shadow of the cathedral
wall, listening to the clear singing of the choir as it melted on the sweet
stillness of the summer day. Even then you could see that deep thoughts
exercised his mind. I remember once…’

But the
reminiscence, unless some day it made its appearance in the good old man’s
memoirs, was destined to be lost to the world. For at this moment the door
opened and the butler entered. In his arms he bore a hamper, and from this
hamper there proceeded the wrathful ejaculations of a cat who has had a long
train-journey under constricted conditions and is beginning to ask what it is
all about.

‘Bless my
soul!’ cried the Bishop, startled.

A sickening
sensation of doom darkened Lancelot’s soul. He had recognized that voice. He
knew what was in that hamper.

‘Stop!’ he
exclaimed. ‘Uncle Theodore, don’t open that hamper!’

But it was too
late. Already the Bishop was cutting the strings with a hand that trembled with
eagerness. Chirruping noises proceeded from him. In his eyes was the wild gleam
seen only in the eyes of cat-lovers restored to their loved one.

‘Webster!’ he
called in a shaking voice.

And out of the
hamper shot Webster, full of strange oaths. For a moment he raced about the
room, apparently searching for the man who had shut him up in the thing, for
there was flame in his eye. Becoming calmer, he sat down and began to lick
himself, and it was then for the first time that the Bishop was enabled to get
a steady look at him.

Two weeks’
residence at the vet.’s had done something for Webster, but not enough. Not,
Lancelot felt agitatedly, nearly enough. A mere fortnight’s seclusion cannot
bring back fur to lacerated skin; it cannot restore to a chewed ear that extra
inch which makes all the difference. Webster had gone to Doctor Robinson
looking as if he had just been caught in machinery of some kind, and that was
how, though in a very slightly modified degree, he looked now. And at the sight
of him the Bishop uttered a sharp, anguished cry. Then, turning on Lancelot, he
spoke in a voice of thunder.

‘So this,
Lancelot Mulliner, is how you have fulfilled your sacred trust!’

Lancelot was
shaken, but he contrived to reply.

‘It wasn’t my
fault, uncle. There was no stopping him.’

‘Pshaw!’

‘Well, there
wasn’t,’ said Lancelot. ‘Besides, what harm is there in an occasional healthy
scrap with one of the neighbours? Cats will be cats.’

‘A sorry piece
of reasoning,’ said the Bishop, breathing heavily.

‘Personally,’
Lancelot went on, though speaking dully, for he realized how hopeless it all
was, ‘if I owned Webster, I should be proud of him. Consider his record,’ said
Lancelot, warming a little as he proceeded. ‘He comes to Bott Street without so
much as a single fight under his belt, and, despite this inexperience, shows
himself possessed of such genuine natural talent that in two weeks he has every
cat for streets around jumping walls and climbing lamp-posts at the mere sight
of him. I wish,’ said Lancelot, now carried away by his theme, ‘that you could
have seen him clean up a puce-coloured Tom from Number Eleven. It was the
finest sight I have ever witnessed. He was conceding pounds to this animal,
who, in addition, had a reputation extending as far afield as the Fulham Road.
The first round was even, with the exchanges perhaps a shade in favour of his
opponent. But when the gong went for Round Two…’

The Bishop
raised his hand. His face was drawn.

‘Enough!’ he
cried. ‘I am inexpressibly grieved. I…’

He stopped.
Something had leaped upon the window-sill at his side, causing him to start
violently. It was the cat Percy who, hearing a strange feline voice, had come
to investigate.

There were
days when Percy, mellowed by the influence of cream and the sunshine, could
become, if not agreeable, at least free from active venom. Lancelot had once
seen him actually playing with a ball of paper. But it was evident immediately
that this was not one of those days. Percy was plainly in evil mood. His dark
soul gleamed from his narrow eyes. He twitched his tail to and fro, and for a
moment stood regarding Webster with a hard sneer.

Then, wiggling
his whiskers, he said something in a low voice.

Until he
spoke, Webster had apparently not observed his arrival. He was still cleaning
himself after the journey. But, hearing this remark, he started and looked up.
And, as he saw Percy, his ears flattened and the battle-light came into his
eye.

There was a
moment’s pause. Cat stared at cat. Then, swishing his tail to and fro, Percy
repeated his statement in a louder tone. And from this point, Lancelot tells
me, he could follow the conversation word for word as easily as if he had
studied cat language for years.

This, he says,
is how the dialogue ran:

WEBSTER
: ‘Who, me?

PERCY
: Yes, you.

WEBSTER
: A what?

PERCY
: You heard.