Lucia Triumphant (20 page)

A chill ran down Georgie's spine. ‘No!' he exclaimed, for he was terrified of ghosts, being by nature very superstitious.

‘
A tall man in a black cloak, with burning eyes and—oh Georgie, it was too awful! His head glowed in the dark, like sulphur.'

Georgie turned quite pale, for he had been outside too, with luminous spectres roaming about all around him. For all he knew, the beastly thing might have been standing over him and grinning. A dark phantom with a glowing head sounded most unpleasant.

‘
I was just coming out of the garden-room,' continued Lucia, ‘and there it was. It walked straight across the lawn and then right through—
through,
Georgie—the wall of the house. And do you know, as it went by, I felt a distinct drop in temperature. In fact, it was as cold as ice.'

No wonder I felt cold, said Georgie to himself. ‘Straight through the wall?' he asked, terrified. ‘You mean the horrid thing is in here somewhere? Wandering about?'

‘
Unlikely, Georgie. It has probably departed, who can say whither?' Lucia was feeling better now and her face had taken on a tranquil appearance.

‘
Well, if you think I'm going to spend another night under this roof, you're very much mistaken.' Georgie was not feeling in the least better.

‘
The Black Spaniard is only seen very occasionally. So we are safe from visitation for tonight at least!'

‘
So you knew about it all along and you never said anything? Oh, how could you, Lucia!'

‘
I never gave the old legend any credence,' said Lucia smoothly. ‘You know my views on superstitious beliefs. But having seen it with my own eyes, I fear that I must modify my sceptical opinions.' Unwise, she thought, to mention what she had just been reading; she knew what she had seen, but others might whisper darkly of autosuggestion. ‘Besides, I do not believe that it is a malevolent spirit. In fact, I'm sure there's no such thing: only the echo of discharges of psychic energy, given off by violent emotions in the past. Calm yourself,
caro.
There's nothing to fear.'

Nevertheless, Georgie went uneasily to bed and did not sleep. The room seemed to be full of strange shapes and noises; of dark shadows that moved as soon as you took your eye off them. He switched on his bedside lamp and started to read a book, over which he soon fell asleep. Lucia, on the other hand, took her camera up to her room with her, with its diaphragm fully open, just in case the vision should reappear. The next time, she would be prepared.

 

Elizabeth's sleep was not troubled by phantoms, for Grebe was rather too modern to be haunted. But she had felt a sort of presence looming over her recently; no Black Spaniard but Lucia, who stood between her and the sun.

Lucia had not been unduly oppressive after her rather cheap victory over the de Maps. She had permitted her conquered foe to enjoy liberty and freedom of association, if not of expression. Yet there was always the threat of tactless reference to be feared; should Elizabeth venture to criticise some article of furniture, the reply (not only from Lucia but from anyone else—for the weapon was common to all) would be that, ugly as it was, it had been in the family for generations. If her partner at Bridge found herself heavily overbid, she could still all Elizabeth's reproaches simply by saying that she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb ....

As well as this cruel treatment at the hands of those she had thought of as her friends, there was the complete loss, at a stroke, of all those sweet dreams of ancient lineage and noble blood that Elizabeth had so briefly entertained. Even now, she believed that there might be something behind the idea. She had, of course, followed up Lucia's list of references, scavenging scraps of school-room Latin from the sides and corners of her mind to battle her way through chronicles and annals, and had found neither falsification nor error in that diligent woman's account. With Perkin Map the line had perished; of that there could be no doubt. Yet something seemed to tell her that this could not be true; that somehow there was some evidence, perhaps as yet undiscovered, that might turn the whole tale on its head. It could not, of course, ameliorate such embarrassments as Eric the Fat; the brigandage in Cumbria; or Perkin's life of crime and distasteful punishment; but Norman blood is Norman blood and any ancestor, however disreputable, is better than none at all.

She had taken her researches further, therefore, and obtained books from distant libraries, on which she had expended many hours of uncomfortable and fruitless labour. As if to mock her, the sun had shone brightly while she ground her way through the scholars' impassable prose. Some promising clues had been revealed. She read, for instance, that a large number of Huguenots had settled in the area, and the thought that she might be a descendant of one of those romantic refugees had crossed her mind. But Huguenots were poor things to one who had been promised Normans; and besides, they had been in Trade, which would never do. There had been a certain Robert de Map, in the time of the first Henry, who was not strictly accounted for; he had supposedly been eaten by a wolf, but his head was never found. It was a possibility, but only a remote one. If only she could uncover some stronger link ....

As they ate breakfast together, Major Benjy, if he was in a good mood, would read out snippets from the newspapers that might amuse his wife. On that particular morning, he was in a very cheerful frame of mind, for his wife's sudden immersion in historical study had meant that she had little time to spare in which she could persecute him. Therefore he was studying the
Hastings Chronicle
for something of interest.

‘
Here, listen to this,' he said. ‘There's going to be a house-sale at Breakspear Hall, near Tilling, Sussex, on Tuesday, the twelfth of April. The entire contents, too, not just the expensive stuff. D'you fancy going to that, old girl?'

Elizabeth considered the idea for a moment. She enjoyed house-sales, with their unique licence for poking round other people's houses and disparaging their possessions in a loud voice. And there was no need to buy anything. Besides, it would be a rather distinguished occasion, with all the county families (the phrase, with its unpleasant associations, made her shudder) present in full strength. Breakspear Hall was not very far away; they could drive out in the motor without overtaxing that unreliable vehicle and, on the whole, she was inclined to favour the idea. On the other hand, Major Benjy had been too much at liberty of late and there was the risk that, grown overconfident because of this, he might seek to elude her and start bidding for things: golf-clubs; tiger-skins, perhaps even cases of wine. Auction sales brought out the very worst in her husband; there had been a most awkward moment at the last sale they had been to. She had been compelled to inform the auctioneer (fortunately a most understanding man) that her husband, as a result of a wound received in the service of his country, suffered from a nervous tic that some might interpret as attempts at bidding. This slight untruth had saved the Mapp-Flint family exchequer nearly forty pounds and spared the attic of Grebe from housing still more relics of colonial life. On that occasion, however, the Major's excessive recklessness had been directly due to the agent, who had mistaken him for someone else and given him four large glasses of whisky before Elizabeth could undeceive him. She was certain that she could ensure that there would be no repetition of that sort of thing, and for herself she knew that her own iron will-power would be proof against even the heady temptations of sale by auction.

‘
I think it might be rather fun,' she therefore replied. ‘Morning or afternoon?'

‘
Eleven-o'clock sharp. Catalogues from Woolgar and Pipstow, two shillings.'

‘
Oh, we shan't need a catalogue,' said Elizabeth firmly. ‘We're only going to have a look. Now then, dear, what are you going to do today? Off to the golf-course again, you idle one?'

Major Benjy had found it politic to abandon his own local historical research, yielding place to his wife. Since then, the Major had returned to his first love, golf, and endured even the most inclement weather in the pursuit of excellence and exercise, either on the course or (more frequently) in the club-house. Thus it was that, despite a sharp wind and the threat of April showers, Benjy caught the eleven-o'clock tram to the links.

The Padre was his companion today, for he devoted every Monday morning to the national sport of his adopted country. They shared the first hole and, on the second, simple faith was worth more than Norman blood (or the lack of it). The third was marred by an unseemly quarrel about a supposedly lost ball in which the Padre's cloth did not protect him from aspersions on his complete honesty; and the fact that the ball was found, after a long search, under the Padre's foot did not strike the Major as the modern miracle that the Padre immediately proclaimed. The hole was ultimately shared and this dispute seemed to inspire both men, so that the game took on the appearance of a mediaeval ordeal by combat. At the half-way stage, however, Heaven had not made up its mind who should have had the third hole, for the match was all square and the two combatants, exhausted by their own unwonted virtuosity, decided to rest for a while.

They sought shelter from the wind in the large bunker and the Major spent a frustrating five minutes trying to light an oily Indian cheroot. When all his matches were used up and still Prometheus' gift had not been imparted to the recalcitrant tobacco, he gave it up.

‘
After all,' said the Padre, ‘ 'tes an Indian weed, not used to our wintry climate. 'Tes no wonder it willna burn.'

The Major did not take this comment kindly; perhaps he thought it savoured somewhat of irony. Therefore he resumed the debate on the third hole.

‘
I still find it remarkable that you didn't feel the ball through the sole of your boot. A golf-ball is not so small, after all.'

‘
Och, man, I tell ye I took it for a stone, and I'll swear that it was stone when I put my foot on it. These things are not for us to rationalize; if the Lord wishes to replace a stone with a golf-ball—'

‘
Nevertheless—' Benjy checked himself, for it was unseemly to wrangle with a man of God about what might be a spiritual manifestation, especially within earshot of the President of the Club and two members of the Committee. ‘Oh well, never mind, then,' he declared magnanimously. ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, especially Heaven. And if you can't believe a clergyman, who can you believe?'

‘
That's very sporting o' ye, Major, and also very pious. And since the hole was shared, let us say no more about it.'

‘
But if it was a miracle —'

‘
Then we were fortunate indeed to be the observers of it and we should keep it to ourselves. Can I no offer you a match for your cheroot?'

The wind abated as he spoke—surely another miracle—and the Major succeeded in lighting his tobacco. A mood of reconciliation fell over the two men and they sat a while in silence.

‘
So ye've discontinued your researches for the time being?' said the Padre. ‘ 'Tes a pity to be sure.'

‘
Well, after that de Map business ....'

‘
Och, it was a mistake that anyone could have made. No, ye should continue with it. Scholarship is a service to the community. Indeed, it is God's work. The ancient monks of Iona kept Learning alive in the dark days o' the heathen. The Christian Church—'

Major Benjy had heard the Padre's excellent summary of the subject only yesterday, in church, and had taken the opportunity to rest his eyes. He had no desire to hear it all again.

‘
Yes, yes, Padre, just as you said. Excellent sermon that was. But my Liz has taken against me doing any more research now that she's started, and she's far better at it than me.'

‘
Well, I'm sorry tae hear it, Major. Can ye no continue the work without her knowing?'

‘
Difficult. My wife is a fine woman, Padre. Takes an interest in everything I do. In fact, that can be rather wearing at times, though I dare say it's with the best of intentions. Never mind.'

A golf-ball came sailing into the bunker and landed at the Padre's feet. It was followed a moment later by Mr. Phillipson, the President of the Club.

‘
Good morning, Major,' he said. ‘Didn't see you there.'

‘
Don't worry,' replied the Major. ‘I say, that's fearfully bad luck. Dreadfully difficult to get out of, this bunker.'

‘
I know,' said Mr. Phillipson ruefully. ‘Good morning, Vicar. Fine Sermon, that, all about the Picts and so on. Oh, by the way, did you hear? Braithwaite's leaving us at the end of the month. Being transferred back to Ullapool.'

Mr. Phillipson gave his ball a mighty blow, which sent it vertically up in the air. It landed on the edge of the bunker, wobbled indecisively and fell back to its original position.

‘
Is that so?' said the Major, casually. ‘So there'll be a vacancy on the—ah—Committee?'

‘
That's right,' said Mr. Phillipson, rather red in the face. ‘You didn't see that last shot of mine, did you?'

‘
Me? Of course not,' said the Major sympathetically.

Mr. Phillipson leant on his club and studied the ball as a cat studies a distant sparrow. ‘Were you thinking of putting your name forward for that vacant place on the Committee?' he asked.