Summer Moonshine (21 page)

I
T
was just as Joe and the Princess Dwornitzchek were preparing to leave the hotel that a panting two-seater entered the High Street and began to proceed along it at a slow crawl, the girl at the wheel peering keenly to right and left like Edith searching for the body of King Harold after the Battle of Hastings. Defying orders, Jane had returned to the front. She had conveyed Mr Bulpitt at racing speed to the Hall, handed him over to Pollen with instructions that he be put to bed and the doctor telephoned for immediately, and had then turned and spurred her Widgeon Seven back to Walsingford.

The comatose peace of the High Street, empty now except for a Rolls-Royce standing outside the Blue Boar, a child trundling a tin can along the pavement with a stick, and a dog making a light snack off something it had found in the gutter, filled her with mixed feelings. She was relieved at the absence of the Weasel and his supporting cast, but it alarmed her to see no sign of Joe. He could not have started to walk back to the Hall or she would have met him on the road, and the only other explanation of his disappearance that presented itself to her was that he had stopped one from the village blacksmith and been carried off to hospital.

It was with growing anxiety that she cruised down one side of the street, and she was returning up the other, when from out of the hotel there came a tall majestic woman in whom she recognized the Princess Dwornitzchek, and in her wake, Joe looking as good as new A glance was enough to tell her that whoever might have been stopping things, it was not he. They entered the Rolls-Royce, which immediately drove off She and the child and the dog had the street to themselves again.

The sight affected her oddly. Until this moment, admiration for Joe's prowess as a warrior had caused her to forget his other, darker side. Her heart, which had been aching with concern and apprehension, now hardened again, and he resumed his role of the serpent who had done his best to ruin her life's happiness, the sinister plotter who had told Adrian Peake that her father was swishing the hunting crop. Once more she had become aware that she was exceedingly angry with Joe.

The short drive home did nothing to soften her mood, and it was with her mind full of deleterious thoughts that she ran the two-seater into the stable yard. Only when, going to the house, she encountered Pollen on the front steps did she pigeon-hole them for future reference. The sight of the butler brought it back to her that there were inquiries to be made after the patient. In the press of other matters, she had almost forgotten about her Uncle Sam.

'How is Mr Bulpitt, Pollen?'

'Getting along nicely, miss. He is in the Blue Room.'

'Has the doctor seen him?'

'Yes, miss.' A soft smile played over the butler's face. 'It appears that the gentleman has sustained no injury. He merely lost his teeth.'

Jane stared at this iron man, bewildered. His air was that of one announcing a purely minor disaster. And while you naturally expect the emotion of a butler who is speaking of someone else losing his teeth to differ in degree from that of a butler who has lost his own, this perplexed her.

'His teeth were knocked out?'

'They fell out, miss. False teeth. The gentleman gave minute instructions as to where they were to be found, and I have dispatched the knife-and-boot boy on his bicycle to recover them.'

Here Pollen, who yielded to none on his appreciation of the humorous, especially if it was in the old broad tradition of the music hall, lost his professional poise completely. The soft smile became a grin. And from behind the hand that shot up to hide it there proceeded an odd gurgling sound like the rough song of the linnet.

A moment later, he was himself again and had reassembled the features.

'I beg your pardon, miss,' he said. And it was with the exaggerated austerity which comes to butlers who momentarily yield to their lower selves that he extended a hand with a letter in it.

'A note for you, miss.'

Jane took it, and for an instant felt only a shrinking distaste. Clean when it had left Adrian Peake's hand, the envelope was now rather liberally smeared with foreign matter. Everywhere on its surface was to be detected the sepia maelstrom of young Cyril Attwater's clammy thumb. Then her heart gave a jump. She had recognized the handwriting.

'When did this come?'

'Shortly after you had left to take Sir Buckstone to the train, miss. It was delivered by hand by a small lad from the village.'

Jane's heart gave another jump. The significance of the words had not escaped her. If notes from Adrian were being delivered by hand by small lads from the village, it must mean that he was in the neighbourhood.

'Oh? Thank you, Pollen.'

The butler inclined his head gracefully, silently indicating his pleasure at having been able to be of service, and Jane opened the envelope.

We who have been privileged to peep over Adrian Peake's shoulder as he penned the letter which she was reading are already aware of its compelling qualities. Coming to Jane all fresh and new, the effect of those impassioned sentences was overwhelming.

There had been moments since the perusal of the first of his communications when, in the intervals of raging inwardly against Joe, she had caught herself thinking none too kindly of Adrian. To a girl of her spirited nature, courageous herself and an admirer of courage in others, the thought of him being frightened by her poor darling Buck had not been an agreeable one. The realization that a mere whisper of impending hunting crops had been sufficient to drive him from her side had seemed to her to suggest the existence of flaws in a character which she had wanted to think perfect.

But now, with this second, soul-stirring epistle, he had redeemed himself. It was with glowing eyes that she read it, and with tripping feet that she hurried to the telephone. She rang up the Goose and Gander, and was answered by its proprietor. And some rough indication of the state of her feelings may be gathered from the fact that J. B. Attwater's voice, though husky from years of drinking port in his pantry in the service of Sir Buckstone Abbott, sounded to her like beautiful music.

'Oh, Mr Attwater, this is Miss Abbott.'

'Good afternoon, miss.'

'Good afternoon. I want to speak to Mr Peake,' said Jane, suitably, considering her emotion, abandoning prose and breaking into poetry.

'Mr Peake, miss?'

'Isn't he staying at the inn?'

The question was one which a man of exact speech had to turn over in his mind. The last Mr Attwater had seen of Adrian Peake, the latter had been jumping his garden hedge and making off across country at a high rate of speed. It was a debatable point whether this could be correctly described as staying at the inn.

He decided to temporize.

'The gentleman is not residing at the Goose and Gander, miss. But he was in here this afternoon.'

'When do you expect him back?'

Again J. B. Attwater had to pause and ponder.

'He left no word as to his plans, miss.'

'Oh? Well, when you see him, will you ask him to telephone me. Thank you, Mr Attwater.'

'Not at all, miss.'

Jane left the telephone, well content. She would have preferred to have been able to speak to Adrian in person, but no doubt he would be ringing up at any moment, to suggest a place of meeting. She went out into the garden, and the first thing she saw there was Joe Vanringham leaning against the wall of the terrace, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He appeared to be in some sort of a daydream.

Adrian's letter had brought about another change in Jane's mood. When last she had seen Joe, as has been shown, it had been dark and dangerous. Lips had been bitten and nasty
remarks stored up for future delivery. But now, in a world of sunshine with the clouds cleared away and the bluebird singing once more, she could feel no animosity even toward a J.J. Vanringham.

She could, however, make him feel foolish and as ashamed of himself as was within the power of one so deaf to the voice of Conscience, and it was her intention to do so. Extremely silly he would feel, she considered, when he learned how futile had been his low plottings. She hurried to where he stood, and he looked up, his eye for an instant dull and absent. Then it lightened, and he grinned his familiar grin.

'Hello, Ginger,' he said.

It seemed to Jane that before coming to the principal item on the agenda paper, it would be only civil to make some reference to the late conflict. She was a fair-minded girl, and he had unquestionably borne himself well at the battle of Walsingford.

'So there you are.'

'Here I am.'

'Did you win?'

'A draw. Stakes returned to the punters.'

'You didn't get hurt, did you?'

'Only a bruised knuckle. Toward the conclusion of the exchanges I feinted with my left and brought up a snappy right to the heart, only to discover that my opponent was wearing over it, under his shirt, a locket containing a photograph of the woman he loved.'

'What?'

'I assure you. He showed it to me later in the pub. You wouldn't have suspected a man like that of the softer emotions, would you? But so it was. Her name is Clara. A rather pie-faced girl, if you ask me, though I didn't wound him by telling him so.
The locket was made of sheet iron or something, and was about the size of a young soup plate. A nasty crack it gave me.'

Jane's heart was touched. It was in her service, she reminded herself, that the wound had been sustained.

'Shall I bathe it for you?'

'No, thanks. A mere scratch. But next time I fight, I shall pick a misogynist.'

'And he didn't hurt you except for that?'

'No, no. A most enjoyable afternoon. By the way, I suppose you are wondering how I got back so soon.'

'No. I saw you.'

'Saw me?'

'Driving off with the Princess. I came back, you see.'

Joe's eyes gleamed.

'I knew you were a heroine. Ginger, will you marry me?'

'No. I thought I had told you that before.'

'I have an idea you did. I will now relate the story of Bruce and the spider.'

'No, you won't. Where did you meet the Princess?'

'She was tucking into tea at the hotel across the way, and I ran into her when I went there for a wash.'

'Was it very awkward?'

'Not at all. Conversation flowed like water.'

'Well, I'm glad you weren't hurt.'

'Thanks.'

'Though you deserved to be. Telling poor Adrian all those lies.'

'Oh, that? Yes, I know what you mean.'

'I should hope so. Well, what I have come to say,' said Jane, unmasking her batteries, 'is that you aren't as clever as you think you are.'

'Nobody could be.'

'Trying to drive Adrian away.'

'Trying?'

Jane's mouth tightened. She was conscious of a return of her earlier mood. She resented the cock of the eyebrow which had accompanied his remark. Her amiability waned, and she spoke with much the same cold hauteur which had made so bad an impression on the Weasel.

'It may interest you to know that I have had another letter from Adrian.'

'From the Fiji Islands? He should be somewhere near there by now.'

'From the Goose and Gander.'

'In the village? Or an establishment of the same name in Tierra del Fuego?'

'You had better read it.'

'No, please. I don't read other people's letters. Tubby, yes. Joe, no.'

'Read it.'

'Well, if you insist.'

He took the letter and glanced through it. He looked up. His face was expressionless.

'So what?'

'You see what he says. He wants me to marry him.'

'You're going to marry me.'

'You? You're just a clown.'

'Perhaps. But if you imagine that I am not sincere when I tell you I love you, you're making a mistake.'

'Adrian's sincere.'

'Adrian,' said Joe, 'is a worm and a rotter, and I shouldn't think he knows what sincerity means.'

There was a silence.

'After that,' said Jane, 'perhaps you will give me back that letter. I don't want to hear any more. And' – her voice shook – 'I don't want to speak to you again.'

Joe smiled a twisted smile.

'I thought you were going to say that,' he said. 'Well, you won't have the chance. I'm leaving.'

'Leaving?'

'In half an hour.'

Something seemed to stab at Jane's heart. Nothing could have been more illogical, and she realized it, but, nevertheless, she knew that this sudden cold feeling that seemed to go deep down into her was dismay.

'Leaving?'

With a shock it came to her that in these last days their intimacy had been growing like a gourd. A moment before, she had been filled with a cold fury. She had told herself that she hated this man. But now it seemed to her as if she were losing a part of herself.

'Leaving?'

'I must, I'm afraid. I have a living to earn.'

'But—'

He nodded.

'I know what you're thinking. The play. Money pouring in all the time, as I told Buck. Well, I'm sorry to say the old masterpiece is no more. It comes off tonight.'

'But – but I thought it was such a success.'

'It was. But it gave offence to my lady stepmother, and as we were driving here in the car, she informed me that she had bought it, and was closing it down.'

Jane was staring.

'Bought it?'

'Lock, stock and barrel. The entire production. American rights, movie rights, everything. Heaven knows what it must have cost her, but she can afford it. She told me that she objected to having a vulgar lampoon running all over the world for her friends to snigger at. One sees her point.'

'The beast!'

'Oh, I don't know. She had a good deal of provocation. I was always willing to admit that it was raw work, putting her into the opus as I did, and I must say I can't help rather admiring her for this devastating come-back.'

Jane was in no mood to share this detached, sportsmanlike attitude.

'She's a hellhound.'

'But a Napoleonic one. Like Napoleon, she sees the enemy's weak point and goes straight at it, crumpling him up and causing him to fly from the field in rout. You see me now about to fly from the field.'