Here Comes a Chopper (4 page)

The fireplace here was surmounted by some wood-carving of apples, grapes and sunflowers, heavy and dark, having a flat panel in the centre which formed a surround for a portrait. The room was furnished, in a harmonious mixture of styles, more from the viewpoint of comfort than of period, and a thick carpet covered the floor.

In these august and extremely pleasant surroundings were gathered what seemed, at first sight, to the visitors, a vast concourse of people, and two of these, both men and both tall and young, immediately picked themselves out from the rest and came towards Dorothy, each bearing a glass of amber-coloured fluid.

‘Just in time for some sherry,’ said the first.

‘You have some,’ said the second, transferring his offering to Roger.

Dorothy and Roger took the sherry, looked at
each other, smiled and sipped, and then, under cover of the general conversation, Roger muttered, in a tone which was, however, more audible than he intended:

‘I say! I don’t know what to make of this. What do you think we ought to do?’

‘Stay to dinner. I think it’s lovely,’ answered the girl. ‘Besides, I’m hungry.’

Roger glanced at his empty glass and cautiously looked round the room. There were a dozen other people present, including an old lady much like a lizard, and the handsome little boy and the remarkably beautiful woman with Titian hair whom they had already seen on the common.

‘It seems she got home all right, then, although we didn’t see her. How old do you think she is?’ demanded Dorothy, immediately following Roger’s eyes.

‘Drawing her old-age pension without a doubt,’ replied Roger, with great presence of mind, transferring his gaze to the little old woman, who grinned at him in a mirthless and terrifying manner.

‘I mean the red-haired one, idiot! The one we met out riding on the common.’

‘Oh, her! The boy’s here, too. Wonder what’s happened to the bloke?’

They were interrupted by a tall man wearing a monocle.

‘My name is Ranmore. I’m the hostess’s nephew. That is my aunt, just come in. Let me introduce you, may I?’ he observed.

An elderly and unnecessarily stately woman had come into the room, glanced round, and immediately picked up her nephew’s almost imperceptible signal.

‘This is so sweet of you,’ she said. ‘Such a very last-minute invitation. Never mind about anything now. I wish Bugle would sound for dinner. Poor little George is nearly dead. Such a good thing you were able to save his life. Such a lovely party. I suppose you have names, but Ranmore never mentions names to me, so never mind now. I’ve put you next to Mrs Bradley,’ she went on, turning to Roger, ‘in that stupid Harry Lingfield’s place. Don’t try to talk to her. She’s clever.’

She admonished him thus with a smile and an imperious little tap on his arm. ‘Don’t bother about Mrs Dunley. She doesn’t matter,’ she added. Roger bowed and could not help grinning. Soon the gong sounded again, and he found himself thrust into the company of the elderly lizard, who cackled harshly as she claimed him. Dorothy went in with the hostess’s nephew, the monocled and polished Ranmore.

‘This is by way of being a birthday party, so it’s mostly the family,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned. I rather like family parties.’

He had smiling dark eyes, a small moustache clipped short in the military manner, large, flexible hands and a kindly, somewhat fatherly voice. Dorothy disliked him very much.

Roger found himself third down the table from its head. The elderly lizard placed him in position as
though he were an amusing but unimportant exhibit in a show-case, and then prepared to abandon him to strangers.

‘We’re not really partners,’ she said, with a leer which made him flinch. ‘You have to look after Mrs Dunley.’

‘But
she
doesn’t matter,’ said Roger. ‘I don’t have to worry about
her
. I’ve already been told so.’ He was still young enough to misjudge the carrying powers of his own voice, and a heavy-faced woman who had seated herself on the other side of him suddenly and disconcertingly replied:

‘Of course you don’t, my poor boy. I’m tired, and, when I’m tired, I really can’t bear young men. I’m quite sure, somehow, you don’t mind my saying so.’

The elderly lady cackled, a sound which brought all eyes in their direction. The pause was followed by a remark from the handsome little boy. He sat next to the hostess on her right.

‘What do you say, Grand-Aunt Bradley?’

‘That fish stinks, flesh is as grass, old fowl are tough, and good red herring is a myth,’ replied the terrifying reptilian promptly. ‘And now,’ she added to Roger, ‘you are wondering why you are here. To be frank, it is, to our hostess, Lady Catherine Leith, a story of some importance.’

Roger, who had taken an immense, immediate liking to her, exclaimed:

‘This is awfully good! Please tell me.’

‘It is little George’s birthday party, you see, and the host, Mr Lingfield, is missing. He went out
to ride, but remained, it appears, to quarrel, and, being temperamental and, I fancy, thwarted, has now gone off in a huff.’

‘Oh, dear! What a sickener for everybody!’

‘Not particularly so. He made us thirteen at table. But all is well, and you and your young friend have put it right, even if he returns. And now let’s forget all about it, and settle down to enjoy ourselves. Do you know anybody here?’

‘I think I’ve seen the red-haired woman before.’

‘Claudia Denbies?’

‘Oh, well, a photograph, then. And we saw her out riding this afternoon. I wonder she risks it. Her hands must be worth a fortune.’

‘She may play to us after dinner. You must certainly stay long enough to hear her.’

‘I say, I’d love to. I went to one of her concerts in London last winter. She’s pretty wonderful, isn’t she?’ He sat and studied her. The red-haired woman had surprisingly muscular arms which showed to no advantage whatever under the short puffed sleeves of a dinner gown of black and silver. Her eyes were amber, and were very large and set wide apart in her head. Her red hair, curled and dressed in a fashion not of the fashion but curiously becoming to her pale, square, resolute, charmingly impudent face, was neither long nor short, but, parted in the middle, fell, with carelessly picturesque effect, not quite to the nape of her neck. Her mouth was too wide and the lipstick on it much too vivid for beauty. She wore neither rings nor a necklace,
yet the effect she created was zestful, barbaric and stimulating. In spite of all this savagery, however, her smile was slightly nervous and very charming. Her wrists and hands were beautiful.

‘Eat your dinner,’ said his companion. ‘It’s rude to stare like that.’

She cackled and Roger laughed.

‘And now, who are you?’ she asked. He told her his name, and, to his great delight, she mentioned his book of poems and complimented him upon it. ‘And your young friend?’

‘Dorothy Woodcote. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you——’ He hesitated. Mrs Bradley cackled again, but the laugh made, despite its harshness, a very encouraging sound. Moreover, he had a feeling that she knew what he was going to ask her. He plunged. ‘I was going to ask you—I thought you were going to tell me—why we’re here. I mean, I understand about the thirteen at table, but Dorothy and I—well, I’m rather interested in this very odd sort of ending to our day. You see, we began on a walking tour—at least,
I
did—and the man who’d promised to meet me couldn’t come.’

He gave a detailed account of his day, and mentioned the superstitions of the morning. Several people listened appreciatively, laughed, and glanced once or twice at Dorothy.

‘We saw you coming,’ said one, ‘and Bugle was sent to the door to lure you in. Lady Catherine could not bear to sit down thirteen at table. She—this is not her house, but she acts as hostess for her
cousin, this Mr Lingfield who is missing—she lives here six months of the year. If Mr Lingfield had been present, we should have been thirteen at table, without you two, and that would have been unsatisfactory. As it is, it is very fortunate that you were able to come along.’

‘It is indeed,’ said the woman on Roger’s left. She spoke drily.

‘Well, we didn’t so much come along,’ said Roger, grinning. ‘We were walking, and had lost our way.’

‘Do you mean to say you’ve been kidnapped?’ She turned to her neighbour, a young man of about Roger’s age, and said, loudly enough for the majority of those at table to hear, ‘Do you hear that, Humphrey Bookham? The last two guests have been kidnapped.’

‘Kidnapped? Yes, I know. I had my orders, and Bugle carried them out.’ He leaned across her and grinned at Roger. ‘Good old Bugle! Stout fellow, that fellow.’

From the foot of the table Captain Ranmore looked at him and nodded.

‘You’ve done us proud, my dear Humphrey. I congratulate you on your perspicacity. You tutors are always sly dogs!’

‘Perspicacity and slyness are not the same thing,’ said Humphrey Bookham, looking annoyed and speaking sharply. He was the young man who had handed Dorothy her glass of sherry.

‘I wonder what old Piggie thinks of it all?’ said Captain Ranmore in an undertone. He indicated
the woman on his right. She sat between him and the tutor, and, so far, had made no remark at the table. She was a thick-set, dark and heavy woman in spectacles. She made no conversation, and seemed anxious only to get on with her dinner. This was not particularly surprising, for the food was remarkably good. Barley cream soup (correctly made with butter, egg and sherry), halibut, braised sweetbreads with mushrooms, roast chicken, cauliflower, creamed potatoes, Christmas pudding and, at the end, ice-cream, made up a substantial, and, to most English people, a highly desirable meal. ‘And Bugle, of course,’ he added.

‘Bugle?’ said Dorothy. ‘Isn’t that——’

‘The butler. I expect he let you in. Sort of secretive, selective, rather seal-like cove. And Mrs Bradley, of course. Although I believe she was privy to the idea. Very much in young George’s confidence, you know, although she only arrived so very recently. Still, she fastened on George like a leech. A very fly old party, I believe.’

‘Oh, yes? You know, the whole thing is rather a mystery. We were walking, Roger and I, and lost our way——’

‘I know. We spied on you. We willed you to come to the door. Without you, we might have been thirteen at table. That, to my aunt, is an unthinkable state of affairs. It is not so much that she herself is superstitious—she is, of course—but that among our guests we have people who would have refused to sit down at all rather than risk being the first of thirteen to rise.’

‘Yes, I see. I’m superstitious myself.’

‘Really? I suppose most people are, when one comes to think. Hackhurst was one of the first. Fellow sitting next to my aunt on the right. Poet, you know. He declared—a lie, of course—that
he
wasn’t superstitious but that so many people
were
that he would go without his dinner rather than occasion alarm and despondency. All that sort of thing. He was rather eloquent in an ineffective, poetic sort of way. Besides, he thinks Lingfield is dead. It was Lingfield who made the thirteenth.’

‘He doesn’t
look
superstitious.’

‘Do you think one can tell a thing like that merely from looking at people?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Of course, you’re young.’ He smiled. His short moustache lifted at the corners of his firm mouth and his eyes were kind.

‘Oh!’ said Dorothy, annoyed. He laughed.

‘Mrs Bradley, next to Hackhurst, doesn’t care a hoot.
She
says that superstition is impious, redundant, unintelligent but important.’

Dorothy gazed at Mrs Bradley, and considered not only the remarkable woman herself but her equally remarkable adjectives. She then glanced at the captain and wondered how it was that his memory had retained, apparently without effort, the bulk of Mrs Bradley’s remarks. He did not look particularly intelligent, and, up to that point, had not sounded it.

L
ADY
C
ATHERINE
L
EITH

C
APTAIN
R
ANMORE

The Dinner Party given for George Merrow on his thirteenth birthday, at Whiteledge, in the County of Surrey, on Maundy Thursday, March 29th. Fourteen persons at table.

‘To continue our tour of the table,’ continued the captain, who seemed determined to monopolize the conversation, ‘your friend Mr Hoskyn—I think he was introduced as Hoskyn?—does not enter into our calculations, since his is the position of
deus ex machina
. Clare Dunley, whom you may or may not know as the archaeologist who has dug up the site at Duna, is not superstitious at all. That’s the woman on Hoskyn’s left. Next to her comes Humphrey Bookham, young George’s tutor. He, poor young devil, isn’t paid to be superstitious. As for Piggie’—he indicated again the thick-set, heavy woman on his right—‘she’s a pillar of the church, and wouldn’t dream of being superstitious. Would you, Piggie dear?’ he added, turning towards her with some suddenness.

‘It’s more than my job’s worth
not
to be,’ said the
dark woman, Eunice Pigdon, speaking abruptly but with good humour. ‘You know that, Grannie. Don’t tease.’ She had removed her spectacles upon seating herself at the table, and now resumed them.