Summer Moonshine (17 page)

It seemed for a moment as if there might be murder at Walsingford Hall as well as at Bilbury Manor, but, with a powerful effort, Joe restrained himself from snatching the putter from this obtuse septuagenarian and beating out his brains, if you could call them that. He even waited until the other had completed his stroke – another miss.

'He's not sitting there now.'

'Of course, he's not. How could he be when he's gone for a walk?'

'Walk? Where?'

'Where what?'

'Which way was he heading and when did he leave?'

'Started out along the Walsingford road twenty minutes ago,' said Mr Waugh-Bonner, and snorted irritably as his companion left him like a bullet from a gun. He disliked all young men, but he hated jumpy ones.

M
R Bulpitt
and Adrian Peake had lunched on board the houseboat
Mignonette
off bottled beer and sandwiches from the Goose and Gander. It had been a silent meal, for Mr Bulpitt, absorbed in his plans, had spoken little, and Adrian, laden with care, had not spoken at all. Brooding on the fact that every minute was bringing nearer the Princess Dwornitzchek's arrival at Walsingford Hall and that he had not yet succeeded in getting in touch with Tubby had begun to sap his morale.

From a reverie of unexampled unpleasantness he awoke to find that his host was asking him a question. Mr Bulpitt was a man who, when not eating or sleeping, was generally asking questions. He now swallowed the last fragment of sandwich, wiped his mouth on a pink handkerchief and opened the barrage.

'Say, tell me. How did you come to know Imogen?'

Adrian explained that they had been fellow-guests at a weekend party. Mr Bulpitt asked what week-end party.

'It was at a house belonging to some people named Willoughby.'

'Nice folks?'

'Very.'

'Friends of yours?'

'Yes.'

'Friends of hers?'

'Yes.'

Mr Bulpitt nodded. He was getting into his stride.

'What happened? Did you fall in love at first sight?'

'Yes.'

'Came like a thunderbolt?'

'Yes.'

'All in a flash?'

'Yes.'

'Well, that's the best way, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'And you kept it a secret?'

'Yes.'

'Her idea, maybe?'

'Yes.'

'She wanted you to have time to fight the world and wrest a fortune from it?'

'Yes.'

'And then his lordship found out about it?'

'Yes.'

'And came after you with a horsewhip?'

'Yes.'

Mr Bulpitt sighed. He seemed to be deploring the impetuosity of the English landed classes.

'He shouldn't have done that. Love's love, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Sure it is,' said Mr Bulpitt. 'You can't get away from it. I don't hold with this keeping young hearts asunder. Of course, his lordship has a different slant on the thing, and I see his viewpoint. You're kind of strapped for money, aren't you, Mr Peake?'

Adrian admitted that his resources were not large.

'That's what's biting Lord Abbott,' said Mr Bulpitt sagely. 'He don't get the sentimental angle. The way he looks at it is that his daughter – his ewe lamb, as you might say—'

He rolled a bright eye inquiringly at Adrian. Adrian endorsed the phrase with a nod.

'The way he looks at it is that his ewe lamb has gone and given her heart to a lowly suitor, and he's out to put the bee on it. Those haughty English aristocrats are like that. Tough babies. Comes of treading the peasantry underfoot with an iron heel, I guess. You can't blame him, I suppose; it's the way he's been raised. He just can't get into his nut that love conquers all. Say, I used to sing a song about that. What was it now? Oh, yes.' In pursuance of his invariable policy when about to become vocal, Mr Bulpitt closed his eyes. 'Yes, that's how it went: "You may boast of the pride of your ancient name, you may dwell in a marble hall, but there's something that's greater than riches and fame, yeah, Love that conquers all."'

On the final note, with the air of a man who has performed an unpleasant but necessary task, he opened his eyes and fastened them on Adrian in an affectionate goggle.

'Listen,' he said. 'You don't have to worry about Lord Abbott. Let him eat cake. You just follow the dictates of your heart and go right ahead and marry the girl. And you needn't fuss about where the money's coming from. I'm fond of that niece of mine. I want her to be happy. So the day she marries, I'm going to settle half a million dollars on her. Yes, sir!'

For some moments silence reigned in the saloon of the
Mignonette,
and Mr Bulpitt would not have had it otherwise. He knew that he had been sensational, and it would have been a disappointment to him to be repaid with a casual 'Oh, yes?'
He regarded Adrian with approval. He had expected him to take it big, and he was taking it big.

As a matter of fact, the latter's faculties had virtually ceased to function. He did not know it, but his emotions were almost precisely those experienced by the unfortunates whom, in his hot youth, Mr Bulpitt had bopped over the head with bottles. The eyes had become glazed, the limbs rigid and the breathing stertorous. It was lucky that he had finished lunch, for the announcement, if absorbed simultaneously with a Goose and Gander ham sandwich, would undoubtedly have choked him.

A full minute had passed before he was able to control his vocal cords, and even then the control was only partial. His voice, when he spoke, came out in a sort of sepulchral gasp, as if he had been a spirit at a séance talking through a megaphone.

'Haifa million dollars!'

'That's what I said.' Mr Bulpitt paused for a moment, twiddling his fingers. A hundred thousand pounds,' he added, with the rather exhausted look of the man who has been dividing by five in his head. That's nice sugar. A young couple could start setting up house on that.'

Adrian Peake was now blowing invisible bubbles.

'But – but are you rich?'

He could not help asking the question, though aware that it was a foolish one. A man who is not rich does not go about giving people half a million dollars. If the urge to do so comes upon him, he resists it, feeling that it is best to keep the money in the old oak chest. However, Mr Bulpitt did not appear to be annoyed.

'Sure,' he replied affably. 'I got plenty.'

'But a hundred thousand pounds!'

'I had a notion it would shake you up some,' said Mr Bulpitt, well pleased. 'Don't you worry, sonny I won't miss it. I'm a millionaire.' He rose and dusted crumbs from his waistcoat. 'Well, time I was off. I got a date.'

'But—'

'Don't thank me. A pleasure. What's money for, if you don't use it bringing two young hearts in springtime together?'

And with this admirable sentiment, accompanied by a benevolent smile, Mr Bulpitt went to the closet where he kept the Whittaker-Vanringham papers, took them out, eyed them lovingly for a moment and made for the door. Looking at his watch, he was glad to see that the hour was not so advanced as he had supposed. There would be plenty of time to stop in at the Goose and Gander for a post-prandial refresher before proceeding to keep his tryst with Tubby. He had an idea that that establishment's draught beer was superior to its bottled, and wished to put this theory to the test.

He left behind him a young man from whose life the sunshine, a moment ago shining with such prodigal warmth, had suddenly been banished. Adrian Peake had just remembered that well-expressed letter which he had written to Jane, severing their relations. It was this that had caused ecstasy to change so abruptly to despair.

The thought of that letter affected him like some corrosive acid. He writhed in agony of spirit. Not since the historic occasion when Lo, the poor Indian, threw the pearl away, richer than all his tribe, and suddenly found out what an ass he had made of himself, had anyone experienced such remorse as now seared Adrian Peake. He felt like a man who, having succeeded in unloading his holdings in a shaky mining venture, reads in the
paper next morning that a new reef has been located and that the shares are leaping skyward.

But these young fellows who need the stuff are no weaklings. Though crushed to earth, they rise again. For several minutes, Adrian Peake sat slumped in his chair, overwhelmed by that old bopped-on-the-head feeling. Then, like sunlight peeping through the clouds, there came into his eye a purposeful gleam. He had seen the way.

Two minutes later he was on the towpath, hastening toward the Goose and Gander.

It would be a grudging and churlish spirit that could withhold its admiration of Adrian Peake at this crisis in his affairs. Experience had shown him that the Goose and Gander was a place where at any moment Sir Buckstone Abbott might pop up with his hunting crop. No one knew better than he that his steps were taking him into perilous territory. But he did not waver. His flesh might shrink, but his soul was resolute. There were no writing materials on board the houseboat
Mignonette,
and the Goose and Gander was the only spot he knew of where these could be obtained. And in order to procure notepaper and envelope and write another well-expressed letter and send it up to the Hall by hand, he was prepared to risk all.

He had just reached the gate which led to the road when from the other side of the hedge there came the sound of an approaching car, and a moment later a two-seater had sped past him. It turned the corner and vanished quickly in the direction of Walsingford, but not so quickly that he was not able to see that Jane was at its wheel and that at her side sat her father, the hunting-crop specialist.

A delicious relief surged over Adrian Peake. What this meant was that there was now no possibility of a distasteful
interruption on the part of the emotional Baronet, and it also meant that, with Jane out motoring to some unknown destination, he need not hurry over the composition of that letter. He could take his time and polish his phrases, secure in the knowledge that it would reach the Hall before her return.

It was almost at a saunter that he entered the parlour of the inn, and almost nonchalantly that he dipped pen in the curious black substance that passed for ink at the Goose and Gander. Presently, the nib was racing over the paper – or as nearly racing as a nib can that for some months past has been used by smokers for cleaning out pipes. He became absorbed in composition and the stuff came out as smooth as oil.

He implored Jane to dismiss from her mind entirely that other communication, which, he presumed, she had by now received from him. It had been written, he said, in one of those fits of black depression which come at times to the best of men. He mooted the suggestion that he must have been mad when he wrote it. But today, he assured her, the cloud had cleared away and he was able to see clearly once more.

Admitting, he wrote, that it would be ideal if their union could be solemnized with the consent and approval of her father, surely his disapproval ought not, in these modern days, to be permitted to stand in their way. Sir Buckstone, he gathered, objected to him because he was poor. But money was not everything. Love, said Adrian, conquers all.

It was a good letter. He thought so as he re-read it, and he was still thinking so when he handed it, with half a crown, to J. B. Attwater's young son, Cyril, whom he found playing trains in the garden, with instructions to take it up to the Hall and leave it there.

Having watched the child start off, he turned away toward the public bar. His literary labours had engendered quite a respectable thirst.

J. B. Attwater's niece was at her post behind the counter, dreaming of London as she listlessly served out a half pint of mild and bitter to an elderly gentleman in corduroy trousers whose rich aroma suggested that his was a lifework that lay largely among pigs. At the sight of Adrian, she brightened perceptibly. He was a stranger to her, for during the brief period when he had been taking his meals at the inn, their paths had not happened to cross, but his appearance was so metropolitan that she warmed to him at once, and when the man in corduroy trousers had finished his refreshment and withdrawn, trailing pig smells behind him like clouds of glory, she embarked immediately upon affable conversation.

'You're from London, aren't you?' she asked when they had agreed that the day was warm and were pretty straight on the prospects of the fine weather holding up.

Adrian said that his home was in London.

'So's mine,' sighed Miss Attwater. And I wish I was there now. Making a long stay in these parts?'

'Not long.'

'You're up at the Hall, I suppose?'

'No. I'm on a houseboat.'

Miss Attwater was interested.

'Mr Bulpitt's houseboat?'

'Yes. Do you know Mr Bulpitt?'

'He comes in here regular. There's a nice gentleman.'

'Yes.'

'Always merry and bright and full of fun. He was in for a quick one not half an hour ago. And while I remember,' said
Miss Attwater, reaching down behind the counter and coming up with a paper in her hand, 'he left this behind him. Put it down by his glass while we were talking, and forgot to take it away with him. I only noticed it after he'd gone. You might give it to him when you see him.'

Adrian took the document. It was blue in colour and legal in aspect. It held no message for him, for, owing to the liberality of the Princess Dwornitzchek and others, he had never seen a summons, and he put it away in his pocket with only a casual glance. Miss Attwater passed a cloth meditatively over the counter.

'I wonder what he was doing with that,' she said. 'If you want to know what I think, Mr Bulpitt's what I call a man of mystery.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Well, what's he doing here at all, to start with? I don't know if you've noticed, but he's an American gentleman.'

Adrian said that he had observed this.

'Well, what's an American gentleman doing, living on a houseboat in a dead-and-alive hole like this? I asked him straight out, and he just laughed and sort of turned it off. And I asked Uncle John if he knew, and he was very short with me.'

'Yes?'

'Bit my nose off. Told me to mind my own business and let the customers mind theirs. Set me thinking, that did. It's my belief that Mr Bulpitt's up to something. Could he be one of these international spies you read about?'

Adrian suggested that there was not very much in Walsingford Parva for an international spy to spy on.

'No, there's that, of course,' said Miss Attwater.

Another client intruded at this point, compelling her to sink the conversationalist in the business-woman. When he had
gone, she resumed, still on the subject of Mr Bulpitt, but touching upon another facet of his many-sided character.

'He's a card – Mr Bulpitt. Has he played any of his jokes on you yet?'

'Jokes?'

'Practical jokes. He's a great one for practical joking. He was telling me about some of the ones he used to play on people over in America. I wouldn't live with him on a houseboat, I can tell you. I'd be afraid he'd push me into the water or something, or put a rat in my bed or something. He's gone off to play a joke on a fellow now.'