Lucia Triumphant (25 page)

‘
Of course,' she drawled, in her most infuriating tone, ‘some of these studies are based on the flimsiest of evidence. Should this study turn out to be of such a nature, no action will be required. I wonder if that will be the case. It really doesn't do, I always find, to make up one's mind before one has had a chance to examine all the evidence and to take every factor and viewpoint into consideration. What new evidence did you say was contained in this particular study, Elizabeth?'

Elizabeth was forced to confess that she had not actually read the study, only a brief summary of it in the newspaper. Mr. Wyse seemed visibly relieved, while Susan, who had been clutching his arm as if in need of protection, released it and gave Elizabeth a look of concentrated hatred.

‘
I see,' said Lucia judicially, ‘you have not actually read the study, yet the brief account of its findings in the paper was enough to make you sell your car at once. That was most public-spirited, dear, but perhaps a trifle hasty.'

Elizabeth felt herself concerned and for a moment knew not which way to turn. Then inspiration came to her and she turned, without replying to Lucia, and addressed the Padre.

‘
So sorry to hear that the Bishop is being so difficult about the exorcism,' she said. ‘So foolish and uncooperative, too. What possible harm could it do? Not to mention all the benefits. Now I confess that, while I lived at Mallards, I found the ghost was no trouble at all—company for me, in fact—but to those of a nervous disposition—'

‘ '
Tes enough to make one despair o' the Kirk of England,' muttered the Padre ferociously. ‘Why, the service is there in the prayer-book. How dare they say I canna perform it in my own parish.'

Georgie stirred uncomfortably in his chair. He had been secretly glad when he heard that the service had been forbidden, for he was dreadfully afraid that, as the object of the exorcism, he would be affected in some way. He had no wish to be exorcised.

‘
But it's such a tar'some business,' he burst out, ‘and so unkind to the poor ghost. And besides, it sounds awfully messy—all that water being splashed about and candle-wax dripping on to the furniture. And suppose my
bibelots
got wet?'

‘
You wouldna like it if a poltergeist got into your collection,' said the Padre angrily. ‘Just think of the harm that it might do. It would hurl your snuff-boxes about the room and shatter your Venetian glass!'

Georgie was struck dumb at this horrible thought. Could one do anything to prevent a poltergeist getting into the house? He had an idea that garlic was supposed to keep them away (or was that only for vampires?).

‘
For my part,' said Susan Wyse, ‘I am quite relieved that this proposed ceremony will not be taking place. Not,' she added hastily, ‘for the quite absurd reasons put forward by the Bishop's chaplain, which I am sure are not the views of the Bishop himself. It is, however, my firm belief that genuine ghosts are rare enough as it is. Why, it would be comparable to pulling down an historic building, or killing some endangered species of animal. It takes hundreds of years to build up the psychic energy required to manifest an apparition.'

The debate could have raged further, for all had their own contribution to make on this topic. Major Benjy could have spoken about devil-worship in the East, while Diva was convinced that she had once seen a friend's gardener coming out of a public-house in Hastings when he should have been at work in Tilling, although when questioned later he gave his word that he had been in Tilling all day—clearly a case of a psychic phenomenon. However, this valuable evidence was not heard, for Withers announced that dinner was ready, and everyone went into the dining-room. Conversation during the meal was confined to more or less neutral topics, for it is hard to participate fully in a discussion if one's mouth is full of lemon sole, especially if the lemon sole is unusually palatable. Even Lucia was forced to admit to herself that Elizabeth's cook had produced edible food on this occasion: and since the shortcomings of Elizabeth's table were generally to be attributed not to the cook's incompetence but to Elizabeth's excessive frugality in the obtaining of the ingredients, Lucia wondered why Elizabeth had chosen on this occasion to spend money on ingredients of reasonable quality. Indeed, Diva was moved to describe the sherry trifle as ‘luxurious'.

‘
I quite agree with you, Diva dear,' said Lucia. ‘Congratulations to cook, Elizabeth, and tell her how well she's mastered my recipe.'

‘
Your recipe?' cried Elizabeth, nearly choking. She would have developed this theme further had she not recalled, in a sudden access of memory, that the recipe was indeed one of Lucia's, sent as a peace-offering after a long-forgotten period of civil war. So she was forced to smile and say, ‘Of course, I remember now. But I think that cook has found a way to improve on your perfection, dear friend. A little less cream, so as not to mask the flavour.'

‘
I thought I detected a slight—how shall I put it? Not blandness exactly, but a mildness to which I am not accustomed. But I agree with you, an improvement. No great loss of flavour; and cream is so expensive nowadays, isn't it?'

Elizabeth could not help but admire, purely as one craftswoman admires the work of another, the skill with which Lucia made it seem as if she had interfered with the recipe simply in order to save a few pennies. She made no reply, but instead resolved to make Lucia's forthcoming humiliation all the more severe. Hitherto she had not planned to make it sound as if Lucia had deliberately concealed evidence of the survival of the de Maps. After this latest sally, however, she began to compose the form of words that she would use to cast the aspersion. As soon as it was feasible to do so, she proposed that the men be abandoned to the mercy of the port and ushered her female guests into the drawing-room.

It was Diva, quick of eye and incurably inquisitive, who first took notice of Miss Lydia Mapp, glorious in her shrine of pot-plants.

‘
That's new,' she cried, and, scuttling across the room like a circular Jack Russell chasing a rabbit down a hole, she thrust her head through the surrounding foliage. ‘Who's it meant to be?'

Elizabeth did not reply; indeed, she averted her head and chattered gaily to Susan Wyse. It would be only a matter of time before Diva's investigative powers answered her question for her.

‘
Miss Lydia Mapp,' Diva spelled out. ‘Any relation?'

‘
What was that, Diva dear? Oh, you've found my little discovery, have you?'

Diva's eyes were glued to the canvas, for she had seen the date and was making rapid mathematical calculations in her head.

‘
Benjy and I went to the sale at Breakspear Hall. So sad, all those lovely things being sold off. Those terrible death-duties—so morbid, don't you think? And there it was.'

‘
But the date says 1768,' said Diva, in an awed voice.

‘
That is my interpretation, certainly.'

‘
So what was it doing at Breakspear Hall?' demanded Evie, manners wholly forgotten.

‘
How I racked my brains, dear Evie! I can only conclude that this Miss Mapp later became a Mrs. Perowne—the family at the Hall, you know—and that her future husband requested her portrait as a token of love. So romantic, don't you think?'

Susan Wyse, though not by nature easily manoeuvrable, had gained her feet and almost jostled Diva out of the way.

‘
But my dear, this is most thrilling!' she exclaimed. ‘Such a find!'

‘
Why dear?' asked Elizabeth innocently. Far better to have the explanation given by an independent source.

‘
It's obvious,' said Susan impatiently. ‘It means that your distinguished ancestors, the de Maps, could not have died out in the seventeenth century, as some people', and she gave Lucia a pointed look, ‘have led us to believe. They were obviously a family of great prestige in the eighteenth century, if a Miss Mapp was a suitable match for one of the Perownes.'

Elizabeth's expression, one of pleasant unconcern, did not change at these words, although in her heart she was deeply relieved. It had suddenly struck her that she ought perhaps to have restored away the second ‘p' of Mapp, to ensure that the link might be easily made. But Susan Wyse had grasped it at once—she who was not, perhaps, the most brilliant mind in Tilling. It had worked.

‘
Why, that seems logical enough,' said Evie. ‘Fancy! But Lucia said ....' She fell silent and gave Lucia a suspicious glance. Why had that account of the de Maps been so categorical, she wondered? Either Lucia's scholarship or her veracity was at fault, it seemed. To put it bluntly, had Lucia told a deliberate untruth? Evie did not appear to be alone in her doubts, for Diva and Susan were quiet also.

‘
Wouldn't it be pleasant if it were so!' exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘And mine is not a common name. But of course there is no way of proving it. I'm afraid the Perowne papers were all dispersed at the sale, some to a private collector, some, I recall, to an American university. So now we will never know the truth.'

‘
The portrait is evidence enough, surely,' said Susan, her eyes fixed on the canvas.

‘
Kenneth will be fascinated when he sees it,' said Evie, and who could fail to detect the significance of the words? Susan nodded her agreement, for Kenneth would not be nearly as interested as Algernon would be, except perhaps in his professional
rôle
as guardian of truth and enemy of falsehoods.

Lucia recognised their mood and a sick feeling of panic surged briefly inside her. ‘May I?' she asked, and stepped in front of the painting. Style, date and signature were all above suspicion and despite (or perhaps because of) Signor Pedretti's lack of skill, she was certain that she could detect a likeness; look thou upon this picture and on this, as it were. The ears, in particular, were most distinctive.

‘
There is a strong resemblance, don't you think?' said Evie to Lucia, acidly (for already in her mind she had convicted Lucia of
suppressio veri
).

‘
Remarkable!' said Diva. ‘Quite remarkable!'

‘
So it was not just my idle fancy,' cooed Elizabeth. ‘I was most forcefully reminded of my Aunt Caroline as she was when I first knew her. In fact, the resemblance is quite startling. Almost a photograph.'

At this point, the men entered the room, and were at once pressed to inspect the Discovery. Georgie quite failed to grasp its unfortunate implications and repeatedly expressed the opinion that the likeness was beyond dispute.

‘
Why, Elizabeth, you might almost be sisters,' he said, and Elizabeth, although pleased by this enthusiasm, could not help but feel a little annoyed. The painting was, after all, extremely ugly. Mr. Wyse also pronounced the likeness to be uncanny and pointed out the town of Tilling, which none of the other observers, for all their acuteness, had so far noticed. Then there was a renewed crush to see the picture. If, as seemed highly likely, the house through whose window Tilling was to be seen was that of Miss Lydia Mapp's father, then surely it must be possible to identify, by the angle from which the town was seen, roughly where the ancestral home of the de Maps (and therefore of Elizabeth) must be. A hubbub of speculation followed, much to Elizabeth's alarm, for if the house were successfully pinpointed, might not exposure follow? As it turned out, however, the painter's lack of skill came once again to her aid; for it was finally agreed that such a view of the town could only be obtained from the middle of the English Channel, through a telescope and not allowing for the curvature of the earth. Mr. Wyse therefore declared it to be ‘stylised' and the matter was dropped.

After such commotions, Bridge seemed quite unbearably mundane and Mr. Wyse had no objection at all when Fate dictated that he should be the one to be excluded from the two tables.

The time shall slip away in contemplation of your divine painting,' he exclaimed with a charming bow. Elizabeth, who had taken such pains to render her forgery undetectable, waved gaily at him and started to deal the cards. Soon she was upbraiding her partner for not supporting her bid and quite unconscious of Mr. Wyse whose delighted fascination had not been exaggerated.

Mr. Wyse knew how to look at pictures. First he stood about seven feet away and allowed his sub-conscious mind to drink in all the hidden depths and subtleties of the work. This process, however, took rather less time than he had expected and he stepped closer to the canvas and inspected it in detail. His generous soul found much to admire in the vigorous, almost impressionistic brushwork (years ahead of its time), the daring manipulation of form and proportion that seemed almost to break the rules of composition, of anatomy itself, in its efforts to express the artist's intentions.

Having satisfied himself that he had done the aesthetic side of the painting full justice, he turned his mind to contemplation of the portrait as a piece of historical evidence, and determined to extract from it every last scrap of information that it contained. He correctly placed the period from the style of the interior furnishings, identified to a nicety the breed of the lapdog and amply justified his opinion of the subject's social position from her dress and manner of arranging her hair. He also noted an engagement ring on her finger—more evidence, if any were needed, to support his hypothesis. Finally, when all was apparently noted, he observed what appeared to be some heraldic device on the tablecloth on which the subject's hand was resting. But it was partly covered by the signature of the artist and further obscured by a dark smear of discolouration around the subject's name. Nevertheless, Mr. Wyse's excellent education in the fine and liberal arts had prepared him for this eventuality. He knew that the best way of removing such marks without any risk at all to the canvas was to moisten the tip of one's finger (not a handkerchief, which might scratch) with one's tongue and rub gently but vigorously until the marks were removed. Having made certain that he was unobserved (for he had no desire to offend anyone by sticking out his tongue while they were watching), he moistened his finger in the approved manner and began to rub. The stain came away as easily as if it had been water-colour and the heraldic device became steadily clearer. He remoistened his finger and rubbed until it began to ache, for the device was one that he thought he recognised. As he did so, he saw, to his utter amazement, lettering beginning to appear under his finger-tip, just to the right of the subject's name. He returned to his task with renewed diligence, careless now of observation in the excitement of his discovery, and scarcely heard Elizabeth's hoarse cry of ‘Leave my painting alone!' For, when all the discolouration was swept away, the name was clearly not Mapp but Mapperley, as in Mapperley House, near Tilling, Sussex.