The Bazaar and Other Stories (25 page)

 

Never yet had his interest in the occult brought him within actual
range of it. To enter the dreadful ballroom, while it was open, and
to be there at midnight had been his plan – armed with psychic
notebook and spirit camera Mr. Blomfield had taken up his position
during the game of hide-and-seek. But, alas, what appeared to have
happened was that someone (probably Arthur, in one of his fits of
zeal) had locked the ballroom again, on his way to bed – and, of
course, done so from the outside. Here, therefore, was Mr. Blom
field, incarcerated with who knew what? The good man, loth to
cause a disturbance, aware of having taken an undue liberty, had
endured his plight for as long as possible – would not somebody
come to find him – would not loving Carrie raise an alarm? Mid
night struck; doomed silence girt round the ballroom – he dithered
the small blue spotlight of his torch around the malignant interior.
Windows? – they were high-set and out of reach; for Mr. Blomfield
was not a tall man. Far, now, from him was any thought of further
tampering with the spirit world; his sole hope was that it might
leave
him
alone . . .

 

Hours seemed to pass: now, he could but envisage what must
have happened – Carrie had dropped asleep, as she often did, the
moment her good head had touched the pillow; and so, as she
always did, she would sleep till morning. And a no less blameless
slumber, no doubt, had claimed the Sprangsbys . . . His morale had
reached its lowest ebb when unearthly flute-notes began to curdle
the air. This, no doubt, was the overture to the Worst.

 

And now, from out the darkness above, glared down the unholy
Queen of the Revels.

 

“Why, Mr.
Blomfield
!” complained Anastasia, recognising the pincenez.

 

“Why, my
dear
lady,” said Mr. Blomfield, recognising the toothi
ness. “This,” he added sincerely, “is a great pleasure! I was – er –
taking a peep around.”

 

“You quite frightened my little dog.”

 

“Could I,” ventured Mr. Blomfield, “come up, I wonder?”
Anastasia, clutching her robe to her, asked: “What
do
you mean?” in
a chaste and forbidding tone.

 

“Madam, it seems I cannot get out any other way.”

 

“How extremely peculiar,” grumbled the lady – modestly vanish
ing back into her room. She did, however, allow Mr. Blomfield
transit. But in vain. For Uncle Theodore, on
his
way to bed, had
guaranteed the sanctity of his bathroom – it was found that the
upstairs door of the Wing was no less firmly locked on the outside.
And, as Phyllida had more than once pointed out, once inside the
Wing one was out of earshot. In vain had many been known to
scream.

 

“It really is sometimes wonderful,” Lady Cuckoo beamed, on
Christmas morning, “the way everything works out for the best.
Once they all three knew what had happened, they were quite
happy. Momo dragged in his mattress, and they made a little camp
around Anastasia’s bedroom fire. Dear Harry’s accustomed to camp
ing (people do, you know, by choice in America) so he was able to
show them how. And he poked the jackdaws’ nests out of the
chimney.

 

“Then he told Anastasia about Red Indian art; and as nobody else
in this old-world country seems to know anything about that, of
course, she was absolutely delighted. As for Momo, he started
composing illustrative Red Indian music on his flute; and Harry
Blomfield got so excited he’s going to sponsor Momo all round
America . . .

 

“Anastasia’s a different woman this morning – of course she knows
we
still don’t know about Art; but, darlings, she even said, ‘Happy
Christmas!’ . . . Poor Carrie
was
a little worried, of course, when her
tea came and she woke to find Harry not there; but Amelia traced
him almost immediately . . . All the same, it was naughty of you,
Theodore – you must
not
be such a selfish bachelor!”

 

“Well, my dear, there’s always one cure for that.”

 

“Oh, don’t, please – oh dear, there go the bells: where
are
they all?
We must start for church.”
The Claimant
“Nor we do,” said Arthur, turning it over.
I
t began, out of the blue, with Arthur’s getting the letter
from Australia. “Why, look,” I said, looking through the post, “I
didn’t know we knew anybody
there
!”

“Well, go on, dear” (I remember saying) “open it. It won’t bite
you.”

 

Those used to be sunny mornings. The house faced east, over the
estuary, and I used to open the windows early in order to air out the
smell of paint. We’d moved in the day the workmen went out, and
everywhere was as fresh – lovely! The house, though ancient, felt
new to us – sometimes we had to laugh, Arthur and I. Look at us,
married thirty-five years and setting up all anew like a boy and girl!
It
had
been a step to take, leaving Wimbledon Park: I know there
were many who thought us crazy. “Whatever will you do with your
selves,” I was asked, “right away off by yourselves down there?” As
they should know, Arthur was cracked on sailing, and asked no
better than gardening when ashore. “No doubt, but how will
you
pass the time?” they would go on.

 

Since I first knew Arthur, he’d dreamed of the West Country.
We’d departed there for our honeymoon, also holidays. So the day
came when he sold his business, and sold it well – having himself
built it up, he deserved to. So, having no one to come after us, we
took what was now our capital and moved West. Compensation for
our having had no family was, we felt free to realise our long dream.

 

I don’t think I ever saw such a happy man. I make myself always
remember that.

 

We’d been in the house three weeks when the letter came. July. It
was drowsy weather, dulling over sometimes in the afternoons but
again bright throughout those evenings. Time passed itself – how, I
need not tell you. I know I had not yet got the curtains up. But what
matter? We went to bed before dark. And outdoors, nothing but the
water, and across that nothing else but woods going steep up, as
they did also behind our house. Few from the village came that way.
No one to look in on us – so we thought!

 

By that same post, I got a letter from Mary. Forgetting Australia
for the moment, I was deep in her everlasting news when I
heard Arthur sharply exclaim. And when he told me, I did not
wonder.

 

For what the man wrote to say was, that the house had had no
business to be disposed of. It was his, he claimed, under his uncle’s
will – his uncle being the last P. St. J. Hobart. Of that, of course, we
could not make head or tail. Arthur’d gone into everything most
thoroughly before signing. True, old Mr. Hobart had been the
owner of the house, as had his ancestors before him – he’d indeed
died there. But died what is called intestate. His lawyers (whom
Arthur dealt with over the purchase) were altogether satisfied as to
that. The old fellow
had
made a will, which was in their keeping, but
then one day he came round, asked for it back and destroyed it
under their very noses. They asked him, should they draw up
another, but all he did was stride out. He returned no more – having
shortly afterwards passed away. As he no doubt knew, he had
nothing to leave but debts: all the lawyers found, when making their
search, was bills. So the house had to be sold to pay off those –
mainly local people. (Fancy their letting credit run on like that! He
traded on their good feeling, did Mr. Hobart – also, I’ve no doubt,
on his ancient name.) Sad, it seemed, as a story, but straightforward.
By all accounts old Mr. Hobart was the last of his line. No word as
to any nephew arose.

 

“What does he call himself?” I wondered.

 

“He signs himself ‘P. St. J. Hobart.’ ”

 

“Arthur, those lawyers
can’t
have made a mistake?”

 

“Not they,” said Arthur. (And a man knows.) “No, this chap hasn’t
a leg to stand on.”

 

“You mean,” I said, “he’s simply trying it on? Or else he’s an
impostor, I shouldn’t wonder.”

 

“Whoever he is,” said Arthur, passing me the letter, “he knows this
place. Seems to know it like the palm of his hand.”

 

So the man did. It was a peculiar letter, partly insulting (he spoke
of “a pack of robbers”), partly aiming to play upon our feelings. The
place, he told us, was the scene of his boyhood. He’d lived his life,
he said, his miserable life, with one hope only – to return. He wrote,
“It’s my fate, my passion and my inheritance. MINE. And no one
shall cheat me of it.”

 

I said: “Well, my goodness. I mean, really . . .”

 

Arthur said nothing.

 

“In fairness,” I said, “his uncle ought to have told him.”

 

“Maybe they fell out,” said Arthur. “You never know. There’s a lot
goes on in those old families.”

 

“Arthur, you ought to send this on to the lawyers,” I said. “Let
them write him – what else are they for? In the first place, he should
have written to them, instead of attempting to play
us
up.”

 

Arthur once more said: “Hasn’t a leg to stand on.”

 

I said: “Look, dear, this has nothing to say to us. So do kindly put
it out of your mind.” (For I saw he couldn’t.)

 

“Can’t but pity the chap.”

 

“Stop it, do!” I cried.

 

“He hasn’t a hope,” said Arthur. Later, I saw him go down the
lawn. He stood there and looked up then down the water, then
around at the trees. He always went off by himself when he felt
badly.

You never know the whole of a man’s mind. Now, too late, I can see
what upset Arthur. He was taking on on behalf of this Hobart heir
because of the way

he
cared for the place, himself. Arthur almost
cared for the place past reason – strange, to feel that way so late in
life. You never come to the end of knowing a man – at one time, I
should not have thought Arthur had it in him. From the moment we
first set eyes on the place, it got him.

It may have been partly the situation. You came on it round a
turn of the valley, suddenly – just the house, the water and the trees
going up. The lawn sloped to the estuary, and there was a jetty –
high-and-dry that day, for the tide was out. “Well,” I said, “I’m glad
that mud doesn’t smell.” For something told me this was to be our
home. I read our future in Arthur’s face.

To return to that letter. Arthur did what I said – that is, sent it on to
the lawyers. What I was not to know was, that Arthur also wrote to
the man himself. Oh, he would have done better to keep out of it!
Not that he intended to give encouragement. No, he meant only (he
later said) to assure the man that the old home was at any rate in
good hands. But Arthur could never express himself on paper –
therefore, the nephew took him to be gloating. By return air mail
from Australia, Arthur received what read like the work of an angry
maniac – had it not been I who took in the post, Arthur’d I’m sure
have hidden

that
letter from me. As it was, share and share alike. I
asked, “Think he’ll go for us with a gun?”

For the nephew was to be with us, shortly. Yes, he was coming
flying back from Australia in order to thresh the whole matter out.
He expected, he wrote, to be taking the next plane after the one
bearing us his letter . . . We turned, of course, to the lawyers.

They
weren’t much help – they hummed and hawed, fidgeted and
looked sideways. Nor were the village people better. A close lot –
smugglers, I shouldn’t wonder. They’d been all right so far (they got
our custom), but old neighbourhoods are apt to be queer to new
comers. Up to then, I and Arthur had never noticed. But of course
that village was in league with the Hobarts. How they knew that
nephew was coming I could not tell you – but
they
knew all right.
We read that in every eye.

So there we were, left with this hanging over us.

 

Now it was to come to a fight, Arthur rightly hardened. “While
and if that fellow continues his present attitude,” he told me, “not a
word will I hear. I am never walking out, and I’m never selling out.
And that’s final.”

 

And when Arthur says so, it is.

 

Then another morning, we ceased to worry.

 

Arthur picked up the newspaper – then half put it down again,
shaken. I looked – there’d been one of those dreadful air crashes,
somewhere halfway across the world. On the route home from
Australia. All lives lost. Arthur took back the paper and ran his
thumbnail down the passenger list. Among those listed was P. St. J.
Hobart.

 

Arthur and I were ashamed to voice our relief. Later, he walked
away down the lawn. The lawyers came on the telephone. “Yes,
I
know,” I said, “don’t tell me.”

That evening, our floorboards started to be torn up. A clock was
moved from in front of a sliding panel. Thrown out in heaps were
our clothes and papers, from drawers and cupboards, during the
crazy search. Night and day it went on. I heard him, Arthur heard
him, but neither of us ever caught him at it. Seldom did we enter
into a room which was not disturbed, seldom a room he had not just
left. How could we doubt for a minute who it was?

“Maybe if we aided him, Arthur, it might stop this?” I once said.
Arthur would have no truck. Myself, it came to the point where I
spent hours, secretly, looking for that will – only to make certain it
was not there. “It’s no GOOD!” I found myself standing shouting, at
the bottom of the stairs, so’s to make myself heard in every part of
the house.

But P. St. J. Hobart was not yet ready to give over.

 

I had the idea of summoning the vicar. Though not a churchgoer, I hear the clergy have powers. However, his wife sent word he
was on holiday.

 

At the start, we remained outdoors as much as we could, leaving
the premises to P. St. J. Hobart on chance he might weary and be
still. We now seldom saw the sun; it was sultry weather. The trees
became dark as though full of smoke. To distract my mind, Arthur
would take me boating, up river out of sight of the house. Or with
sandwiches we would make off into the further woods – sitting our
backs up against some tree, Arthur would take my hand in his, then
one after the other we’d doze off: we had sleep to catch up with.
Nothing but the humming of the insects – till a bird would scream,
off away down there. Soon, I could see, our absences chafed Arthur:
he could not agree to them on principle. He was right – a man
should stay by his own home.