Cavalier Case (12 page)

It was at this point that Jemima's eyes were opened. She understood suddenly what was really happening. She was not so much playing better as being made to play better — and by Dan Lackland himself. He was carefully, subtly, teasingly, but undeniably, orchestrating the whole thing. There was no further time to analyse the situation as Jemima, breathless and flushed but happy, found herself not only playing the game as never before but also enjoying it as never before. Neither Jane Manfred nor in effect Charlotte, although she continued to pursue every shot with undiminished energy, were part of what was becoming something of a private game. Other strokes were discovered in her repertoire under Dan's implicit tuition; inventive little manoeuvres of her own were executed. It was Jemima who increasingly covered for Charlotte when she missed a ball, and Jemima who dived forward at the net — a seemingly impossible shot — and under his unspoken encouragement smashed the ball triumphantly just beyond Dan's reach so that he flung up his racket in despair, half-laughing, half-cursing, yet at the same time obviously almost as pleased by her

The score was now 5-4 to Jemima and Charlotte.

 'You've taken 5 games off us in a row! What cheek,' said Dan to Jemima as they changed sides; they were level at the far side of the net. Jane Manfred was busy by the chairs on the other side touching her make-up with a lacy handkerchief and Charlotte, her head turned away, was sipping something from a pink-plastic glass. A small knot of people in the bar area were watching the game. Jemima no longer cared about their presence. In fact she was even secretly rather pleased: since she was certainly never going to give this dazzling display again, there might as well be witnesses to it.

'You know, you could be really good,' added Dan, giving Jemima a small approving pat, 'with a little coaching, perhaps, preferably from me! You've got a wonderful eye.'

'You mean I could have been a contender?' replied Jemima 'As far as I am concerned, you are a contender. A serious contender.' Their eyes met; for a second, the lightness of it was gone. I just hope we're still talking about tennis, thought Jemima; maybe he's never seen
On the Waterfront
.

It was in the course of the next — crucial — game, which might give the set to Charlotte and Jemima, that the final revelation came to her about what was taking place; as a result she found herself annoyed and amused in about equal proportions — with perhaps just a dash of excitement thrown in as well. As she swooped down on Jane Manfred's service and delivered a sizzling low backhand in her direction, only to find that Dan himself was at the net volleying, and yet in the nick of time Jemima managed to get that back too, but Dan was there once more . . . her own willing participation, her eagerness, the fun, the invention, the sheer pleasure of it all, what did all this remind her of, frankly, but making love? And finally what was Handsome Dan Meredith doing to her now, from his strange vantage point at the other end of the net, but seducing her?

It might be a rather strange method of wooing, the image of Richard III seducing Lady Anne over her husband's bier came to her, since she had seen the play at the Barbican the night before with Cass, with its merry opening references to Mistress Shore's 'cherry lip, bonny eye and passing pleasing tongue'. But who was to say it was an ineffective one? 'Was ever woman in this humour won?' the crookback future king, as played bt Anton Lesser, had concluded. Well, Handsome Dan had not exactly won her, had he? They were still playing the game. On the other hand, if she was to go ahead and with Charlotte's help, naturally, win the set . . .

The score was now 15-40 with Jane Manfred taking an unconscionable time to deliver what might well prove the last serve of the set; she had already insisted on adjourning to the side to dab her brow with the lacy handkerchief once more, and then one of the famous pearl ear-rings had threatened to come loose. Charlotte, ready to receive the serve, was hopping from one toe to the other, her head bent slightly forward, her lips parted open, as though willing this to be her mini-triumph by which she would at least send the return which would end the set in victory.

At last Jane Manfred served. In spite of the delay — or perhaps because of it — she looked as poised during her delivery as she was presiding over one of her own famous dinner parties. It was a good, strong, deep serve, precisely aimed at Charlotte's backhand, which as its owner had correctly explained was still a bit feeble in spite of all that wonderful Costa has done'. Nevertheless, Charlotte flung herself at the ball, which was springing away on to the tramlines, and just managed to get there. She returned a soft crossing shot to where, inevitably, Dan at the net awaited it. He killed it, and there was nothing anyone — not even the new Jemima Shore — could do about that. 30-40. Now Jane Manfred was due to serve to Jemima. Her serve to the left—hand court was not nearly so strong, although it could be testingly deep.

Jemima, waiting, caught Dan's eye at the net. But he did not, as she had half-expected, give her that little complicit grin. On the contrary, he appeared uncharacteristically abstracted from the game. A moment before the ball finally coursed past his ear in Jemima's direction, he had actually looked briefly over his shoulder towards the bar area. Then a great many things happened at once.

The serve was indeed quite deep, down the centre line, but not so deep as to defeat Jemima. She decided to attempt a lob high over Dan's head to the far corner of the court, a position from which she knew that Jane Manfred, on her usual form, would not even try to retrieve it. Jemima sent her lob soaring upwards and — oh, joy! —judged it perfectly. Just as she had anticipated Dan, despite his height, could do nothing, and Lady Manfred, immobile at the other side of the court, did do nothing... In a moment, the set would be theirs . . .

What she had not anticipated was what followed. Just as the ball was about to bounce — or perhaps had just bounced since at the time it was never quite clear and afterwards nobody but Jemima ever cared — a woman rushed on to the court, not through the little side door used by the players, but directly through the enormous glass doors which formed the barrier with the bar area. She was screaming something, which, with her mass of long black hair, made her seem to be some form of maenad. 'You
muddler
!' was what it sounded like to Jemima, who was standing, unable to take in anything much other than the fate of her brilliant ball.

The yellow ball landed — or just did not land. The woman then caught it — or just picked it up and hurled it in the direction of Dan Lackland, who had turned right round to watch the trajectory of Jemima's shot. The knot of spectators in the bar area had grown, many of them players in the PPT. One of these spectators detached herself from the group and dived after the intruder into the court. The streaming red hair, with the large Bunny-girl bow back in place, alerted Jemima to the fact that it was Alix Carstairs even before the intruder turned on her and shouted again.

This time Jemima could hear quite distinctly what she said and so could all the spectators, whose numbers had increased still further, as though word had spread throughout the Club that there was some extra sport to be watched on the 'Royal Court' quite apart from the traditional game of tennis.

'You red-haired bitch!' the woman was shouting. 'I bet you're having it off with him.' The intruder, in a thin white blouse and long Laura Ashley-style flowered skirt, was thin almost to the point of emaciation so that her collar bones were visible, sticking out of the blouse's neck like two huge knuckles. But as she flung back her hair, her resemblance to Nell Meredith, give or take the lines on her face and her haggard expression, was sufficiently marked for Jemima to realise that this must be Dan's ex-wife, whom she had wanted to meet, if not exactly like this, even before Dan Lackland had put his arm round her and said in that special tender voice, 'Now, Babs.'

Babs Meredith shook him off and moved towards Charlotte who had reached the net. Then she started to shout again.

Murderer!' she was saying. 'Your husband's a murderer. The man you took away from me is a murderer! How do you like that? He killed that poor old butler — '

This time Dan behaved more firmly; the arm he now tightened round Babs Meredith's shoulders was more restraining than comforting, and the voice a good deal less tender as he said, 'Now, Babs, you're making an exhibition of yourself. To say nothing of me and my guests.'

Babs Meredith, struggling in his grip, did try to make her own comment on this, it sounded remarkably like, 'Fuck your guests,' but Dan was by this time masterfully hustling his ex-wife away through the side door.

'Come and sit down and we'll talk,' were his last audible words, the tenderness beginning to return to his tone as he approached the welcome sanctuary of his office.

The silence which had prevailed temporarily in the bar area, due possibly to embarrassment but more likely to an intense universal desire to take in absolutely everything that was happening, came to an end. In the excited buzz of conversation which followed, Adriana's plaintive voice could be discerned, 'Did I miss something? What happened? Will someone tell me just what happened?' since at the crucial moment she had most unfortunately chosen to go back to the changing room in order to adjust Kenneth's magnificent but by now woefully lop-sided wreath of roses.

On the other hand the group surrounding Little Mary, the famed gossip columnist of the
Daily Exclusive
(who notoriously doubled as Miss Mouse of the 'Mousehole' column in J
olly Joke
), was audibly if jocularly congratulating her. For Little Mary to manage to be personally present at the moment when the Cavalier Case encompassed sport — and in a sense a spot of sex — as well as all its other elements, was a considerable coup. Little Mary herself, eyes twinkling behind her rose-tinted spectacles (a nice if slightly inappropriate touch on her part), accepted the congratulations, while reflecting with satisfaction that her disguise in tennis gear in order to report the PPT, at which she had believed, wrongly, royalty would be present, had fooled Handsome Dan Meredith, known to be on the warpath since Nell's revelations to the Press. Really, everybody did look alike in tennis clothes: she must bear that in mind for the future

It was bad —or good—luck, depending on your point ol view, that the second round of the PPT had just come to an end and almost all the players were now gathered in the bar areq, beginning to avail themselves of the champagne before the start of the semi-finals. In the midst of this pretty feminine gathering, appropriately pink faces, high voices, squeals ol laughter, delightfully modest denials of excellence, charmingly boastful claims of utter failure, the Home Secretary, Stuart Gibson, cut an incongruous figure. He had just been playing with, of all people, Marcus Meredith — but of course it was not really so surprising given that Marcus was his PPS. The Home Secretary's face was red, not pink, and he was drinking Perrier, not pink champagne. Marcus himself had vanished. Altogether the Home Secretary looked highly embarrassed at finding himself a large sweating Gulliver among all these deliciously pink-favoured Lilliputians.

When Stuart Gibson caught sight of Jemima, he looked relieved; this was a face he did at least recognise without knowing immediately why (she had interviewed him two weeks earlier about the need for more black policewomen).

'Is that Lackland's wife?' enquired Stuart Gibson nervously. 'Rather useful sort of wife to have, I suppose. I must train my own wife to interrupt when I'm losing . . . ' The Home Secretary laughed to show that he was making a joke. Jemima smiled out of politeness; to her, the idea of the Home Secretary's wife, a shy creature who spent most of her time raising money for hospices, behaving like Babs Meredith was less amusing than her husband appeared to think.

'I must say that for a moment my chap over there did think we were in for trouble — ' The Home Secretary nodded in the direction of his detective who once again, in his plain inconspicuous dark suit, managed to be clearly distinguishable from every single other person in the club. 'But he relaxed when he realised that it was just a bit of domestic sport for spectators. What a wife to have! I must train mine — ' In his embarrassment, the Home Secretary seemed to be on the verge of repeating his own joke,

'She's not actually his wife,' said a nervous female voice at Stuart Gibson's elbow. 'She's his ex-wife. Poor thing, she's not been very well lately . . . '

'Minister, may I introduce Lady Lackland?' Marcus Meredith, who had reappeared, seal-like with his wet hair sleeked back, was wearing the only other conventional dark suit in the Club. But meeting Charlotte only served to increase the Home Secretary's embarrassment.

At the same moment, however, Jane Manfred, who, in the midst of all the kerfuffle, had paused on the court to inspect herself in a tiny gold pocket mirror, chose to join them. Now the Home Secretary's happiness was restored. Jane Manfred was, after all, the one person who continued to look totally recognisable, pearls and all, in her tennis clothes.

'My dear Jane, what a wonderful chance! Gillian and I so much enjoyed that amazing dinner and the young Indian cellist was such a special touch — ' He hesitated. From Jane Manfred's expression, Jemima thought that the musician had been neither Indian nor a cellist although possibly quite young. Stuart Gibson plunged on. 'I am sure Gillian has written to you.'

Although Lady Manfred gave her own regal smile of acknowledgement to all this, she had, for the time being, other fish to fry. 'What a pity, darling, we did not manage to finish the set,' she observed warmly to Jemima. 'Dan and I won the first set so easily but you were playing really well in the second. We must play again sometime very soon.'

Jemima, too dignified to enquire whether the famous last ball had actually reached the ground (in which case she would have the moral satisfaction of knowing they had actually won), but not too dignified to wonder about it, began to reply that she would love to play again, the sooner the better.