Gaudy Night (24 page)

It was quiet and pleasant in Cathedral. She lingered in her seat for some little time after the nave had emptied and until the organist had finished the voluntary. Then she came slowly out, turning left along the plinth with a vague idea of once more admiring the great staircase and the Hall, when a slim figure in a grey suit shot with such velocity from a dark doorway that he cannoned full tilt against her, nearly knocking her down, and sending her bag and parcels flying in disorder along the plinth.

“Hell!” said a voice which set her heart beating by its unexpected familiarity, “have I hurt you? Me all over—bargin’ and bumpin’ about like a bumble-bee in a bottle. Clumsy lout! I say, do say I haven’t hurt you. Because, if I have, I’ll run straight across and drown myself in Mercury.”

He extended the arm that was not supporting Harriet in a vague gesture towards the pond.

“Not in the least, thank you,” said Harriet, recovering herself.

“Thank God for that. This is my unlucky day. I’ve just had a most unpleasant interview with the Junior Censor. Was there anything breakable in the parcels? Oh, look! your bag’s opened itself wide and all the little oojahs have gone down the steps. Please don’t move. You stand there, thinkin’ up things to call me, and I’ll pick ’em all up one by one on my knees sayin’ ‘
mea culpa
’ to every one of ’em.”

He suited the action to the words.

“I’m afraid it hasn’t improved the meringues.” He looked up apologetically. “But if you’ll say you forgive me, we’ll go and get some new ones from the kitchen—the real kind—
you
know—speciality of the House, and all that”

“Please don’t bother,” said Harriet.

It wasn’t he, of course. This was a lad of twenty-one or two at the most, with a mop of wavy hair tumbling over his forehead and a handsome, petulant face, full of charm, though ominously weak about the curved lips and upward-slanting brows. But the colour of the hair was right—the pale yellow of ripe barley; and the light drawling voice, with its clipped syllables and ready babble of speech; and the quick, sidelong smile; and above all, the beautiful, sensitive hands that were gathering the “oojahs” deftly up into their native bag.

“You haven’t called me any names yet,” said the young man.

“I believe I could almost put a name to you,” said Harriet. “Isn’t it—are you any relation of Peter Wimsey’s?”

“Why, of course,” said the young man, sitting up on his heels. “He’s my uncle; and a dashed sight more accommodating than the Jewish kind,” he added, as though struck by a melancholy association of ideas. “Have I met you somewhere? Or was it pure guesswork? You don’t think I’m like him, do you?”

“When you spoke, I thought you were your uncle for the moment. Yes, you’re very like him, in some ways.”

“That’ll break my mater’s heart, all right,” said the young man, with a grin. “Uncle Peter’s not approved. I wish to God he was here, though. He’d come in uncommonly handy at the moment. But he seems to have beetled off somewhere as usual. Mysterious old tom-cat, isn’t he? I take it you know him—I forgot the proper bromide about how small the world is, but we’ll take it as read. Where is the old blighter?”

“I believe he’s in Rome.”

“He
would
be. That means a letter. It’s awfully hard to be persuasive in a letter, don’t you think? I mean, it all takes so much explaining, and the famous family charm doesn’t seem to go over so well in black and white.” He smiled at her with engaging frankness as he recaptured a last straying copper.

“Do I gather,” said Harriet, with some amusement, “that you anticipate an appeal to Uncle Peter’s better feelings?”

“That’s about it,” said the young man. “He’s quite human, really, you know, if you go about him the right way. Besides, you see, I’ve got the bulge on Uncle Peter. If the worst comes to the worst, I can always threaten to cut my throat and land him with the strawberry leaves.”

“With the what?” said Harriet, fancying that this must be the latest Oxford version of giving the raspberry.

“The strawberry leaves,” said the young man. “The balm, the sceptre, and the ball. Four rows of moth-eaten ermine. To say nothing of that dashed great barracks down at Denver, eating its mouldy head off.” Seeing that Harriet still looked blankly at him, he explained further: “I’m sorry; I forgot. My name’s Saint-George and the Governor forgot to provide me with any brothers. So the minute they write d.s.p. after me, Uncle Peter’s for it. Of course, my father might outlive him; but I don’t believe Uncle Peter’s the sort to die young, unless one of his pet criminals manages to bump him off.”

“That might easily happen,” said Harriet, thinking of the plug-ugly.

“Well, that makes it all the worse for him,” said Lord Saint-George, shaking his head. “The more risks he takes, the quicker he’s got to toe the line for the matrimonial stakes. No more bachelor freedom with old Bunter in a Piccadilly flat.
And
no more spectacular Viennese singers. So you see, it’s as much as his life’s worth to let anything happen to me.”

“Obviously,” said Harriet, fascinated by this new light on the subject.

“Uncle Peter’s weakness,” went on Lord Saint-George, carefully disentangling the squashed meringues from their paper, “is his strong sense of public duty. You mightn’t think it to look at him, but it’s there. (Shall we try these on the carp? I don’t think they’re really fit for human consumption.) He’s kept out of it so far—he’s an obstinate old devil. Says he’ll have the right wife or none.”

“But suppose the right one says No.”

“That’s the story he puts up. I don’t believe a word of it. Why should anybody object to Uncle Peter? He’s no beauty and he’d talk the hind leg off a donkey; but he’s dashed well-off and he’s got good manners and he’s in the stud-book.” He balanced himself on the edge of Mercury and peered into its tranquil waters. “Look! there’s the big old one. Been here since the foundation, by the looks of him—see him go? Cardinal Wolsey’s particular pet.” He tossed a crumb to the great fish, which took it with a quick snap and submerged again.

“I don’t know how well you know my uncle,” he proceeded, “but if you do get a chance, you might let him know that when you saw me I was looking rather unwell and hag-ridden and hinted darkly at felo-de-se.”

“I’ll make a point of it,” said Harriet. “I will say you seemed scarcely able to crawl and, in fact, fainted into my arms, accidentally crushing all my parcels. He won’t believe me, but I’ll do my best.”

“No—he isn’t good at believing things, confound him. I’m afraid I shall have to write, after all, and produce the evidence. Still, I don’t know why I should bore you with my personal affairs. Come on down to the kitchen.”

The Christ Church cook was well pleased to produce meringues from the ancient and famous College oven; and when Harriet had duly admired the vast fireplace with its shining spits and heard statistics of the number of joints roasted and the quantity of fuel consumed per week in term-time, she followed her guide out into the quadrangle again with all proper expressions of gratitude.

“Not at all,” said the Viscount. “Not much return, I’m afraid, after banging you all over the place and throwing your property about. May I know, by the by, whom I have had the honour of inconveniencing?”

“My name’s Harriet Vane.”

Lord Saint-George stood still, and smote himself heavily over the forehead.

“My God, what have I done? Miss Vane, I do beg your pardon—and throw myself abjectly on your mercy. If my uncle hears about this he’ll never forgive me, and I
shall
cut my throat. It is borne in upon me that I have said every possible thing I should not.”

“It’s my fault,” said Harriet, seeing that he looked really alarmed, “I ought to have warned you.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve no business to say things like that to anybody. I’m afraid I’ve inherited my uncle’s tongue and my mother’s want of tact. Look here, for God’s sake forget all that rot. Uncle Peter’s a dashed good sort, and as decent as they come.”

“I’ve reason to know it,” said Harriet.

“I suppose so. By the way—hell! I seem to be putting my foot in it all round but I ought to explain that I’ve never heard him talk about you. I mean, he’s not that sort. It’s my mother. She says all kinds of things. Sorry. I’m making things worse and worse.”

“Don’t worry,” said Harriet. “After all, I
do
know your uncle, you know—well enough, anyhow, to know what sort he is. And I certainly won’t give you away.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t. It isn’t only that I’d never get anything more out of him—and I’m in a devil of a mess—but he makes one feel such an appalling tick. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been given the wrong side of my uncle’s tongue—naturally not. But of the two, I recommend skinning.”

“We’re both in the same boat. I’d no business to listen. Good-bye—and many thanks for the meringues.”

She was half-way up St. Aldate’s when the viscount caught her up.

“I say—I’ve just remembered. That old story I was ass enough to rake up—”

“The Viennese dancer?”

“Singer—music’s his line. Please forget that. I mean, it’s got whiskers on it—it’s six years old, anyway. I was a kid at school and I dare say it’s all rot.” Harriet laughed, and promised faithfully to forget the Viennese singer.

Come hether freind, I am ashamed to hear that what I hear of you.... You have almost attayned to the age of nyne yeeres, at least to eight and a halfe, and seeing that you knowe your dutie, if you neglect it you deserve greater punishment then he which through ignorance doth it not. Think not that the nobilitie of your Ancestors doth free you to doe all that you list, contrarywise, it bindeth you more to followe vertue.

—PIERRE ERONDELL

“So,” said the Bursar, coming briskly up to the High Table for lunch on the following Thursday; “Jukes has come to grief once more....”

“Has he been stealing again?” asked Miss Lydgate. “Dear me, how disappointing!”

“Annie tells me she’s had her suspicions for some time, and yesterday being her half-day she went down to tell Mrs. Jukes she would have to place the children somewhere else—when lo, and behold! in walked the police and discovered a whole lot of things that had been stolen a fortnight ago from an undergraduate’s rooms in Holywell. It was most unpleasant for her—for Annie, I mean. They asked her a lot of questions.”

“I always thought it was a mistake to put those children there,” said the Dean.

“So that’s what Jukes did with himself at night,” said Harriet. “I heard he’d been seen outside the College here. As a matter of fact, I gave Annie the tip. It’s a pity she couldn’t have removed the children earlier.”

“I thought he was doing quite well,” said Miss Lydgate. “He had a job—and I know he kept chickens—and there was the money for the little Wilsons, Annie’s children, I mean—so he ought not to have needed to steal, poor man. Perhaps Mrs. Jukes is a bad manager.”

“Jukes is a bad lot,” said Harriet. “A nasty bit of business altogether. He’s much best out of the way.”

“Had he taken much?” inquired the Dean.

“I gather from Annie,” said the Bursar, “that they rather think they can trace a lot of petty thieving to Jukes. I understand it’s a question of finding out where he sold the things.”

“He’d dispose of them through a fence, I suppose,” said Harriet; “some pawnbroker or somebody of that kind. Has he been inside—in prison—before?”

“Not that I know of,” said the Dean; “though he
ought
to have been.”

“Then I suppose he’ll get off lightly as a first offender.”

“Miss Barton will know all about that. We’ll ask her. I do hope poor Mrs. Jukes isn’t involved,” said the Bursar.

“Surely not,” cried Miss Lydgate, “she’s such a nice woman.”

“She must have known about it,” said Harriet, “unless she was a perfect imbecile.”

“What a dreadful thing, to know your husband was a thief!”

“Yes,” said the Dean. It would be very uncomfortable to have to live on the proceeds.”

“Terrible,” said Miss Lydgate. “I can’t imagine anything more dreadful to an honest person’s feelings.

“Then,” said Harriet, “we must hope, for Mrs. Jukes’s sake, she was as guilty as he was.”

“What a horrible hope!” exclaimed Miss Lydgate.

“Well, she’s got to be either guilty or unhappy,” said Harriet, passing the bread to the Dean with a twinkle in her eye.

“I dissent altogether,” said Miss Lydgate. “She must either be innocent and unhappy or guilty and unhappy—I don’t see how she can be happy, poor creature.”

“Let us ask the Warden next time we see her,” said Miss Martin, “whether it is possible for a guilty person to be happy. And if so, whether it is better to be happy or virtuous.”

“Come, Dean,” said the Bursar, “we can’t allow this sort of thing. Miss Vane, a bowl of hemlock for the Dean, if you please. To return to the subject under discussion, the police have not, so far, taken up Mrs. Jukes, so I suppose there’s nothing against her.”

“I’m very glad of that,” said Miss Lydgate; and, Miss Shaw arriving at that moment, full of woe about one of her pupils who was suffering from perpetual headache, and an incapacity to work, the conversation wandered into other channels.

Term was drawing to a close, and the investigation seemed little farther advanced; but it appeared possible that Harriet’s nightly perambulations and the frustration of the Library and Chapel scandals had exercised a restraining influence on the Poltergeist, for there was no further outbreak of any kind, not so much as an inscription in a lavatory or an anonymous letter, for three days. The Dean, exceedingly busy, was relieved by the respite, and also cheered by the news that Mrs. Goodwin the secretary would be back on the Monday to cope with the end-of-term rush. Miss Cattermole was seen to be more cheerful, and wrote a quite respectable paper for Miss Hillyard about the naval policy of Henry VIII. Harriet asked the enigmatic Miss de Vine to coffee. As usual, she had intended to lay bare Miss de Vine’s soul, and as usual, found herself laying bare her own.

“I quite agree with you,” said Miss de Vine, “about the difficulty of combining intellectual and emotional interests. I don’t think it affects women only; it affects men as well. But when men put their public lives before their private lives, it causes less outcry than when a woman does the same thing, because women put up with neglect better than men, having been brought up to expect it.”