Summer Moonshine (8 page)

It was just as Joe had feared. Before his eyes, his incandescent brother was visibly cooling off. He had come in like a lion. Reading this note had made him a lamb.

'No,' he said. 'You're wrong. Peake isn't the fellow. This is just a note from Sir Buckstone, asking him to come up and mix.'

Joe did his best: 'Still—'

'No, it can't be Peake.'

Joe continued to do his best, though he was feeling baffled and despondent, like a cinquecento Italian prince who, after engaging a hired assassin to do a job of work, is informed that the fellow has got religion and retired from business.

'Still, just to be on the safe side, don't you think it would be as well to see him and tell him that if he's around these parts
tomorrow, you will twist his neck and drop him in the river? It can't do any harm.'

'Yes, it can. And I'll tell you why. What about Jane biting a piece out of my leg for talking tough to her boy friend. And here's another thought: Suppose Peake went and told Heloise. She's pretty sold on him. No, I'm well out of it, I guess. It would never have done, anyway. . . . Hey!' said Tubby, driving a finger into Joe's ribs. He indicated a stocky figure approaching across the terrace. 'Here comes Sir Buckstone. I'll leave you to it.'

S
IR Buckstone Abbot's
weather-beaten face seemed to be wavering between a hospitable smile and the rigidity of embarrassment. In the manner in which he smacked his gaitered leg with his hunting crop there was something almost coy. Joe gathered that he did not, as a rule, conduct these business conferences in person.

'Mr Vanringham?'

'How do you do?'

'How do you do?'

'I have been admiring your view,' said Joe agreeably.

Sir Buckstone took a look at it and delivered another onslaught on his leg.

'Eh? Oh, yes, capital view. The river and all that.'

'Yes.'

'On a clear day you can see to – I forget where, but quite a distance.'

'It's pretty clear this morning.'

'Oh, very. Yes, nice and clear. Er – your brother tells me, Mr Vanringham – I hear that you – ah—'

'Yes.'

'Delighted. We are all very fond of your brother. Tubby, eh? Ha-ha! Tubby.'

'I hope you will have room for me at the Hall.'

'Oh, yes, lots of room. Big place. Costs the deuce of a lot to keep up. Er – ha – hr'rmph,' said Sir Buckstone, catching himself a nasty one with the hunting crop.

Joe felt that the time had come to help him out.

'When I was chatting with my brother, Sir Buckstone, I rather got the impression that before a fellow entered into residence at Walsingford Hall, there were certain formalities to be observed. Putting it briefly, he hinted that one had got to come across.'

A look of relief came into the Baronet's face. As Joe had surmised, he seldom appeared at these business chats in person. He eyed Joe with affection, approving of his tact.

'Well, as a matter of fact,' he said, 'yes. One or two of my guests do pay a sort of – er – nominal sum. Helps to keep things going and all that sort of thing. But I usually leave—That is to say, my secretary, Miss Whittaker, generally attends—In short, I am not quite sure—'

Once more Joe felt impelled to help out:

'Perhaps if I had a talk with Miss Whittaker—'

'Yes, that is what I should suggest.'

'I shall enjoy meeting Miss Whittaker again.'

'You've met her?'

'We have had one short but very agreeable interview. Almost a romp it became at one time. Shall we go and find her, then?'

'Certainly By all means.' Sir Buckstone coughed. He had taken a great liking to this young man, and benevolence was struggling with the business sense. 'You – er – you mustn't let her overcharge you.'

'Oh, that's all right.'

'She sometimes allows her anxiety to help to – er – colour her views on—'

That's quite all right.' It occurred to Joe that this was an excellent opportunity to give the father of the girl he loved some idea of his financial condition. Fathers like to know these things. 'Money means nothing to me.'

'It doesn't?' said Sir Buckstone, startled. They had been strolling along the terrace, but he now halted in order to get a better view of this
lusus nature.

'Not a thing. You see, I've so much of it. And pouring in all the time. Take this play of mine that's running in London now.'

'You're a dramatist, are you?'

'Yes. Well, as I say, take this play of mine. An enormous success. Suppose we put my royalties for the London run at ten thousand pounds.'

'Ten thousand?'

'We want to be conservative.'

'Of course. Conservative, yes.'

'Then, on top of that there are the provincial rights, the American rights, the Australian rights, the picture rights, radio rights, amateur rights, future musical-comedy rights, future picture rights on those, translation into the French, the German, the Italian, the Czechoslovak—Shall we say fifty thousand pounds in all?'

'Fifty thousand!'

'We are being conservative,' Joe reminded him.

'That's a great deal of money.'

'Oh, no. Just a beginning. Merely scratching the surface, you might say. We now come to my next one.'

'You have written another?'

'Not yet. But when I do. Suppose we pencil in a hundred thousand for that, because, of course, one will make one's price for the picture rights stiffer. We must take that into consideration.'

'Of course.'

'Yes, I think we may safely say a hundred thousand pounds. And then – this is where it begins to mount up – there comes the one after that. Try to imagine what that will make!'

'A fortune!'

'Positively.'

Sir Buckstone's head was swimming, but a possible flaw in his companion's reasoning occurred to him. Far-fetched, perhaps, but worth pointing out.

'Suppose your next ones aren't successful?'

Joe raised his eyebrows with a short, amused laugh.

'Of course, of course,' said Sir Buckstone, feeling foolish. 'Of course. Don't know why I said it.'

He was conscious of a slight giddiness. A sudden roseate thought had crossed his mind. Here was this chap – well-knit, clean-cut, quite passably good-looking – with more money than he knew what to do with—Might it not possibly happen that Jane—

'Bless my soul!' he said.

His affection for this sterling young fellow was growing momently.

'Well, I congratulate you. It is a splendid position for you to have reached at your age – er – your brother did not tell me your name?'

'Joe.'

'Joe, eh? Well, my dear Joe, you are certainly entitled to be proud of yourself.'

'Very kind of you to say so, Sir Buckstone.'

'Call me Buck. Why, you're a millionaire!'

'More or less, Buck, I suppose.'

'Bless my soul!' said Sir Buckstone.

He fell into a thoughtful silence. They moved along the terrace and became aware of an elegant figure, standing there in maiden meditation. Sir Buckstone nudged Joe gently.

'Oh, Miss Whittaker,' he called.

'Yes, Sir Buckstone?'

'I believe you know Mr Vanringham? Mr Joe Vanringham. Brother of the other one. He is coming to join us here?'

'Oh, yay-ess?'

'Yes. And I thought – he thought – we both thought he might have a word with you. . . . Good-bye, then, for the present, Joe.'

'See you later, Buck.'

The Baronet disappeared, glad to be removed from contact with the sordid, and Joe turned to Miss Whittaker, to whom it was his intention to talk like a Dutch uncle. His heart ached with an elder brother's pity for Tubby, severed from this girl by what he was sure was only a temporary misunderstanding; and all that was needed, he felt, to clear up this annoying little spot of trouble was a word or two in season from a level-headed man of the world.

These plans, however, which level-headed men of the world form in careless ignorance of what they are up against often fail to reach fruition. There is a type of girl, born in Kensington and trained in business colleges, to whom it is not easy to talk like a Dutch uncle. To this class Prudence Whittaker belonged.

'For about how long,' she asked, 'would it be your intention to remain at the Hall, Mr Vanringham?'

'Miss Whittaker,' said Joe, 'can you look me in the eye?'

She could, and proved it by doing so.

'Miss Whittaker,' said Joe, 'you have treated my brother shamefully Shamefully! My brother, Miss Whittaker.'

'I would prefer to confine our conversation entirely to business, Mr Vanringham.'

'He loves you passionately, madly, Miss Whittaker.'

'I would prefer—'

'And all you have to do in order to place matters once more on their former hotsy-totsy footing is to come clean about that brown-paper package.'

'I would prefer—'

'If it was, as he supposes, jewellery from a city slicker, then there is no more to be said. But if—'

'I would prefer, Mr Vanringham, not to discuss the matter.'

There had come over her classically modelled face an almost visible glaze of ice, and so intimidating was this that Joe decided to humour her wishes. Already his lower slopes were beginning to freeze.

'All right,' he said resignedly. 'Well, what's the tariff?'

'Thirty pounds a week.'

'Including use of bath?'

'There is a bathroom attached to the room which you would occupy.'

'What, in an English country house?'

'Walsingford Hall was thoroughly modernized by Sir Buckstone's predecessah. I can assure you that you would be quite comfortable.'

'But are bathrooms everything?'

'Sir Buckstone has an excellent chef
'Is food everything, Miss Whittaker?'

'If you are thinking of your fellow guests—'

'Frankly, I am. I saw a film the other day, the action of which took place on Devil's Island, and the society there struck me as being very mixed. Nothing of that sort here, I trust?'

'Sir Buckstone's guests are all socially impeccable.'

'Are what?'

'Socially impeccable.'

'I'll bet you can't say that ten times, quick.'

Prudence Whittaker maintained a proud silence.

'And now,' said Joe, 'the most important thing of all. What about the treatment of the inmates? I will be quite frank with you, Miss Whittaker. I have just come from the village, and there are ugly stories going about down there. People are talking. They say that as the ploughman homeward plods his weary way of an evening, he sometimes hears screams coming from Walsingford Hall.'

A shapely foot began to tap the terraced turf.

'Of course,' said Joe, 'I quite realize that in an institution like this you must have discipline. Please don't think me a foolish sentimentalist. If the order has gone out that the gang is to play croquet, and Number 6408, let us say, wants to play hopscotch, naturally, you have to be firm. I understand that. It is as if somebody on a Continental tour tried to sneak off to Beautiful Naples when Mr Cook had said they were to go to Lovely Lucerne. But discipline is one thing, harshness another. There is a difference between firmness and brutality.'

'Mr Vanringham—'

'I am told that when one of the paying guests tried to escape last week he was chased across the ice with bloodhounds. Was that right, Miss Whittaker? Was that humane? There are limits, surely?'

'Mr Vanringham, do you desi-ah a room, or do you not? I am a little busy this morning.'

'You aren't in the least busy this morning. When I came up, all you were doing was just standing there with blinding tears of wild regret in your eyes, thinking of Tubby.'

'Mr Vanringham!'

'Miss Whittaker?'

'Do you or do you not—'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Very good. I will go and see to it.'

She walked away, a dignified, disdainful figure. And Joe, though there were a number of things he would have liked to ask her – whether, for example, the American honour system was in operation at Walsingford Hall and what she thought of his chances of becoming a trusty – did not seek to detain her.

He had other work to do. That thrumming hunting crop of Sir Buckstone's had given him the inspiration which he had been seeking ever since Tubby had failed him, and it was his desire at the earliest possible moment to establish connection with Adrian Peake.

He crossed the terrace and started off down the steep dusty road that led to the Goose and Gander.

Adrian Peake had finished his breakfast and was smoking a cigarette on the rustic bench outside the inn's parlour. He was gazing up at Walsingford Hall.

Much had happened to disturb Adrian Peake this morning. He had not liked meeting Joe. The ham had been as bad as yesterday's, and the coffee worse. And he had started the day badly by having a broken night, due partly to the eerie lapping of the water against the side of the boat, partly to the scratching noise which had brought back to his mind Jane's unfortunate
remark about the water rats' club, and partly to the unknown bird, which, rising at five sharp, had begun going 'Kwah, kwah' like a rusty hinge.

Nevertheless, the eye which he was directing at Walsingford Hall was a happy, contented eye. The house seemed to him to breathe opulence from every brick; and to one who from boyhood up had been consistently on the make, the thought that he had won the heart of its heiress was very pleasant on this lovely morning. Architecturally, Walsingford Hall offended his cultured taste, but it had the same charm for him which a millionaire uncle from Australia exerts in spite of wearing a loud check suit and a fancy waistcoat. Wealth is entitled to its eccentricities of exterior, and, in return for what lies beneath, we are prepared to condone the outer crust.

With a happy little sigh, he threw away his cigarette, and was lighting another when Joe arrived. Having no desire for further conversation, he rose and started to move to the gate.

There was a tenseness in Joe's manner.

'Where are you going?'

'Back to the boat.'

'Don't!' said Joe.

He thrust Adrian gently back on to the rustic bench, then sat down himself and placed a kindly hand on the other's shoulder. Adrian removed the shoulder and hitched himself farther along the bench.

'What do you mean?'

'I wouldn't if I were you.'

'Why not?'

'Somebody is there whom I don't think you will want to meet.'

'Eh?'

'At least, he's on his way there. My brother Tubby hurried down ahead of him to warn you.'

'Warn me?'

'Rather considerate of him, I thought.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm telling you. Just after you left me, my brother Tubby, who, it appears, is staying at the Hall, arrived, very hot and breathless. "Where's Peake?" he asked. "Gone to the inn," I said. "Tell him to stay there," said Tubby. "Sir Buckstone Abbott is after him with a hunting crop. He says he intends to rip the stuffing out of him."'

'What!'

'That's what I said. But Tubby explained. He tells me you have become engaged to Sir Buckstone's daughter. Is it true?'

'Yes.'

'Secretly?'

'Yes.'

'And your means are somewhat straitened?'

'Yes.'

'Then that's the trouble. That's what he resents. I don't know how well you know Sir Buckstone. I mean, have you ever studied his psychology?'

'I've never met him.'

'I know him intimately. A delightful man if you don't rub him the wrong way, but, if you do, subject to fits of ungovernable fury. You can't blame him, of course. It's that sunstroke he had when he was big-game hunting in Africa. He's never really been the same since. Sometimes I think he's not altogether sane.'