The Girl in Blue (23 page)

Her
interest was immediately excited. If Homer went to meet girls arriving by
train, it meant something. She had always looked on him as the least active
girl-meeter of her acquaintance. The eye she bent on Vera as the two drew near
was a speculative eye, and what she saw convinced her of the significance of
Homer’s deviation from the normal. This was not just a girl, but one of such
surpassing beauty that one blinked on beholding her; the sort of girl who makes
strong men catch their breath and straighten their ties; a girl Sheiks of Araby
would dash into tents after like seals in pursuit of slices of fish; the last
kind of girl, in short, she decided instantly, whom her poor misguided brother
ought to have got mixed up with. She managed to respond with her usual
heartiness as Homer made the introductions, but she remained uneasy. She had no
illusions regarding his physical attractiveness, and in Vera she saw — quite
correctly — a girl who was planning to marry him for his money.

Rather
a sombre girl, this Miss Upshaw, she thought. She gave the impression of
smiling with difficulty, possibly for fear of getting wrinkles.

But it
was not this that was causing Vera’s moodiness. Once again she was brooding on
the apparent impossibility of extracting words of love from Homer. On the walk
to the Hall from Mellingham Halt he had spoken quite freely on a number of
subjects. He had called her attention to the fineness of the evening, he had
spoken of the P.E.N. festivities at Brussels, and he had left her in no doubt
that what he was sharing his bedroom with was a mouse, harping on this latter
topic at some length: but on wedding bells and bishops and assistant clergy he
had not touched, and she had almost made up her mind that he never would.

True,
they had yet to sample the shady nooks and secluded walks of which her mother
had spoken, but she had begun to doubt if even these would be shady and
secluded enough to produce results.

With
Barney fearing the worst, Vera perplexed and baffled and Homer virtually a
total loss, conversation could not proceed other than fitfully. When after the
third silence Vera said she supposed she ought to be going in and introducing
herself to Mr Scrope, the suggestion was welcomed.

‘I’ll
come with you,’ said Barney.

‘I,
too,’ said Homer. ‘I have already spoken to him briefly about my mouse, but I
should be glad to go into it in more depth.’

‘There
is a mouse in Mr Pyle’s bedroom,’ Vera explained, speaking with the weariness
of a girl who has heard all she requires about mice.

There
may be more than one,’ said Homer.

‘I
wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Barney. ‘Crips denies his guests nothing. All
right, let’s go. He’s in his study.’

‘I am
not altogether satisfied,’ said Homer, as they moved off, ‘that it is not a
rat.’

3

Crispin’s study, in which
so many generations of Scropes had written so many letters to
The Times,
was
on the ground floor, a dark and depressing room rendered even darker and more
depressing at the moment of Chippendale’s entry by the presence of Constable
Simms, who, sitting with folded arms in a chair by the desk, somehow contrived
to give it the atmosphere of a magistrate’s court. A sensitive man, finding
himself there, would have felt that he would be lucky if he got away with a
mere fine.

Chippendale,
who was not sensitive, entered with a jaunty and elastic step. He was about to
face serious charges, but the only thing that bothered him on such occasions
was the question of whether they could be made to stick, and he knew that those
confronting him now could not. To say that his conscience was clear would be
inaccurate, for he did not have a conscience, but he had what was much better, an
alibi which no prosecuting counsel could break.

‘You
wished to see me, sir,’ he said, substituting, as was his laudable custom when
company was present, the more formal style of address for his usual chum or
mate. ‘Good evening, Mr Simms,’ he added courteously. ‘You’ve dried yourself, I
see. The last time I saw you, you were all wet. Did you fall into the lake or
something?’

His
attitude could not have been more sympathetic, but all it drew from the officer
was a tightening of the lips and a hardening of eyes which even before he had
spoken had been eyes of stone. It was left to Crispin to explain the situation.

‘Simms
fell into the brook,’ he said, and Chippendale clicked his tongue, amazed and
concerned.

‘Touch
of what’s known as vertigo?’ he hazarded.

‘He
says somebody pushed him.’

‘Pushed
him?’ Chippendale’ echoed, frankly bewildered. ‘What,
pushed
him? Who
would have done a thing like that?’

‘He
accuses you.’

‘And
you’ll get a stiff sentence,’ said the constable, speaking with relish. ‘Six
months, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Chippendale’s
manner took on a strange dignity. He drew himself to his full height, which
even when full was not much, and stared defiantly. He did not actually say ‘There
is no terror, cocky, in your threats, for I am armed so strong in honesty that
they pass by-me like the idle wind which I respect not’, but he made it evident
that that was what he was thinking.

‘I’m as
innocent as the driven snow,’ he said.

‘Ho!’

‘And I
can prove it.’

‘Ho!’

‘When
did this outrage occur?’

‘As if
you didn’t know.’

The
desk was handy for being struck with a clenched fist. Chippendale struck it.

‘Answer
my question!’

‘Please
answer his question, Simms.’

‘About har
past five,’ said the constable gruffly.

Chippendale
would have struck the desk again, but he had hurt his hand the first time. He
confined himself to a withering look.

‘At
half past five,’ he said, ‘I was in the library in conference with Mr Scrope
and his nephew Mr West. I could call on Mr West to vouch for the truth of my
statement, but it won’t be necessary. Mr Scrope can do all the vouching that’s
required. That’s so, isn’t it, Mr Scrope?’

‘Perfectly
correct,’ said Crispin. ‘At half past five, Simms, Chippendale was with me and
my nephew in the library.’

Constable
Simms was plainly disconcerted, but England’s police do not give in easily.

‘Might
have been earlier than har past.’

Chippendale
repeated the withering look.

‘How
much earlier?’

‘Quarter
of an hour, maybe.’

‘So you
say now that the outrage may have taken place at a quarter past five?’

‘About
then.’

‘At a
quarter past five,’ said Crispin, ‘Chippendale was already in the library.’

It was
evidence against which the stoutest-hearted could not contend. Constable Simms
said ‘HO,’ rose from his chair and made for the door.

‘So
now,’ said Chippendale, ‘you know the meaning of the words “innocent as the
driven snow”, and I think you would be well advised, cocky, not to go about
making these wild accusations without a lot of evidence. Or tittle. Otherwise
you’ll be getting yourself into serious trouble. I may or may not see my
solicitor about this, but if I don’t, it’ll only be because I’ve got a tender
heart. The idea of thinking I’d do a thing like bunging you into a brook. Ask
me, it was one of the church lads. Don’t you agree, Mr Scrope?’

Crispin
said that it was certainly a tenable theory.

‘If you
will go sitting beside brooks in a locality congested with church lads, in my
opinion you’re just asking for it. One of them was bound to get ideas into his
head. And you wouldn’t have heard him creeping up behind you, because he wouldn’t
let a twig snap beneath his feet, like that fellow Chingachgook we were talking
about the other day, Mr Scrope. So if I were you, I’d make searching —’

He
would have added the word ‘enquiries’, but the door had closed behind the
constable. He turned to Crispin.

‘We
didn’t half put it across that copper, didn’t we, mate? What you’d call a
famous victory, like in the poem. Ever read that poem? I learned it in Sunday
school. Kid finds a skull and takes it to her grandfather, and he tells her
about the battle they had in those parts, out in Belgium somewhere it was. I’ve
forgotten most of it, but I remember it ended up “Things like that, you know,
must be at every famous victory.”‘

‘And
one of the things that are going to be at this famous victory,’ said Crispin
with satisfaction, ‘is that I shall be seeing the last of you, Chippendale.’

‘I don’t
get you, chum.’

‘I am
sending your employers a cheque for what I owe them.’

‘You’re
paying them off?’

‘I am.’

‘Cor
stone the crows, I never thought you’d make it. What did you do? Rob a bank?’

‘I won
twelve hundred pounds on a horse.’

‘Cor
chase —’ Chippendale began, but before he could issue instructions concerning
his aunt Fanny and gum trees he was interrupted by the entry of Barney, Homer
and Vera.

Barney
opened the conversation.

‘Hullo
there, Crips. Not busy, are you?’

‘No
longer, madam,’ Chippendale informed her in his genial way. The police have
left.’

‘Police?
Has the joint been raided?’

‘Ha ha,
madam. No, merely a private personal matter. Somebody pushed Constable Simms
into the brook.’

‘You
astound me. Well, he had a fine day for it. This is Miss Upshaw, Crips.’

‘Pleased
to meet you, miss,’ said Chippendale. ‘Well, if there’s nothing further, Mr
Scrope, I’ll be getting along. Mr West —’Mr West?’ said Vera. ‘My nephew
Gerald,’ said Crispin. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Quite
well. Is he staying here?’

‘Yes.’

‘How
delightful.’

‘Nice
fellow, Jerry West,’ said Barney, and Chippendale was swift to endorse this
opinion.

‘The
whitest man I know,’ he said. ‘He’s just given me a substantial sum to drink
his health.’

‘Why
did he do that?’

‘Exuberance,
madam. Gaiety of spirit. He’s come into money. Something to do with the
termination of some trust he was connected with. I didn’t follow all the details,
but the salient fact emerged that he is now in the chips. And good luck to him,
say I. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.’

It was
possibly the fear that, once embarked on this eulogy, the speaker might
continue it indefinitely that led Crispin at this point to change the subject
by asking Vera if he could show her her room.

‘I
wonder,’ she said when she had seen the room and expressed her approval of it, ‘if
I could use the telephone. I ought to let my mother know I have arrived.’

‘There
is a telephone in the library.’

‘Oh,
thank you,’ said Vera. ‘Mother,’ she said some minutes later, for the
Mellingham post office always took its time with calls to London.

The
lovely voice of Dame Flora Faye floated over the wire. ‘Hullo, my chick. So you’ve
got there. Been down any of the shady walks yet?’

‘No.
And nothing will happen when I do. Homer’s hopeless.’

‘What
was that you said? Homer hopeless?’

‘Absolutely
hopeless. We’re never going to get anywhere.’

‘Have
patience, my child.’

‘I’ve
had all the patience I’m capable of. I tell you, he’s hopeless, and I’m not
going to waste any more time over him.’

‘Then
what do you plan to do?’

‘I’m
going to marry Gerald.’

‘The
pavement artist! You can’t be serious.’

‘Yes, I
am. He’s staying here. I’ve always been quite fond of Gerald, and he’s got his
money now. He’s rich.’

‘Not as
rich as Homer.’

‘And
not as spectacled as Homer. And not as fat as Homer. And not a bore like Homer.
Gerald’s all right. He only wants moulding. Are you there, Mother?’

She
asked the question because there had been a prolonged silence at the other end
of the wire. Dame Flora had either swooned or was wrestling with her feelings.
The latter, it appeared, for she now found speech.

‘But
has it slipped your mind, honeybunch, that you broke the engagement?’

‘I didn’t.
You did. You misunderstood something I said and went and acted impulsively.’

‘On my
own? Without your authority?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You’re
going to tell him that?’

‘As
soon as I meet him.’

‘It
doesn’t strike you as a little hard to believe?’

‘Not a
bit. And anyway when I fling myself into his arms and kiss him…’

‘Is
that what you have in mind?’

‘That’s
what.’