The Girl in Blue (20 page)

And
with a cheery ‘Chingachgook’ Chippendale went on his way, leaving Crispin to
his thoughts.

3

Barney, returning from tea
at the vicarage, was not in her customary light-hearted mood. The vicar had
done her well, denying her nothing in the way of buttered toast and cake, but
in spite of this she could not help feeling depressed. She was thinking of G.
G. F. West and his odd method of passing summer afternoons.

This
was her first visit to England, and of course for all she knew it might be the
normal practice of young Englishmen to hide in cupboards, possibly with the
idea of jumping out and saying ‘Boo!’, but something seemed to tell her that
this was an individual case and not just a sample of what was going on all the
time all over the country. And this being so, it was difficult not to question
Jerry’s sanity. All the evidence appeared to point to his being as nutty as a
fruit cake, which saddened her a good deal, for in the brief period in which
they had been acquainted she had come to regard him with no little affection. A
charming young man, she had told herself. A thousand pities that he should have
this one weakness.

The
more charitable theory that his activities might be a form of English humour
had just presented itself, when her thoughts were diverted by the sight of
Crispin. He came out of the house and started to walk in the direction of the
lake. She hailed him, and he turned, and as he drew near the look on his face
brought all the maternal instinct in her to life. It was the face of a man so
weighed down with weight of woe that one wondered how he could navigate. His
aspect reminded her of her husband on mornings of bygone January the firsts,
when the late Mr Clayborne owing to his habit of seeing the new year in had
never been at his most robust.

‘Crips!’
she cried. ‘Heavens to Betsy! You look like one of those
bodies-which-have-been-in-the-water-several-days.’

And
indeed there was a certain resemblance between Crispin and such a cadaver, for
the passage of time had done nothing to diminish the horror of the task that
lay before him. He was also experiencing pangs of remorse for the past. ‘Oh,
what a tangled web we weave,’ he was saying to himself, ‘when we touch a
brother for two hundred and three pounds six and fourpence and then go and lose
a hundred of it on a horse that comes in second.’ Half the misery in life, he
was thinking, is caused by horses that come in second; the other half by
calling Heads when you might have known it was going to come down Tails.

A man
cannot muse along these lines for any length of time without it showing in his
appearance. All the concern which Barney had been feeling for an eccentric G.
G. F. West was transferred to this new claimant for her commiseration. Nor is
this to be wondered at. G. G. F. West was after all a mere acquaintance, but
Crispin Scrope had become very dear to her. And he was so helpless, so
vulnerable, so essentially the sort of man who without a woman’s hand to guide
him must inevitably trip over his feet and plunge into one of life’s numerous
morasses. Her heart ached for him.

‘What
is it, Crips? What’s biting you?’

It was
not an easy query for Crispin to answer. He was, as has been shown, far from
being an intelligent man, but he was intelligent enough to realize that it
would be injudicious to make any reference to the miniature. And yet everything
urged him to confide in this angel of sympathy. He wanted to cleanse his stuffed
bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart, as Shakespeare would
have put it.

A
moment later he had seen the way. It involved falsifying the facts, but there
are times when facts have to be falsified. Diplomats are doing it every day
without losing their sleep. He decided to tell all — or a slightly edited
version of all.

‘It’s
Chippendale,’ he said. ‘He’s blackmailing me.’

‘Speak
more clearly, Crips. It sounded just as if you were saying Chippendale was
blackmailing you.’

‘I did.’

‘For
heaven’s sake! You been going in for crime of some sort?’

‘No,
no, of course not. But he says if I don’t do what he wants, he’ll tell the
paying guests that he’s a broker’s man. That would be bad?’

‘Fatal.
They’d all leave.’

‘I
thought you didn’t like the paying guests.’

‘I need
their money.’

‘Is
that what Chippendale is after, money?’

‘No, he
wants me to push Constable Simms into the brook.’

A frown
marred the smoothness of Barney’s brow. Unlike Vera Upshaw, she never worried
about getting wrinkles. When she suspected that she was being trifled with, she
let nature take its course.

‘Are
you pulling my leg, Crips?’ she said severely.

‘No,
no.’

‘It
sounds like it. Pushing Constable Simms into the brook, it doesn’t make sense.
Where’s the percentage for Chippendale in that?’

Having
successfully passed the point in his narrative where invention had had to take
the place of truth, Crispin was now able to become fluent. In a shaking voice
but with no pauses or hesitations he reminded her of the bad feeling which
existed between Constable Simms and Chippendale, of the latter’s expressed
desire to make the former wish he had never been born, and of the difficulty a
man weighing a hundred and twenty pounds always has in getting one weighing two
hundred and ten into this frame of mind. He went on to emphasize the trouble
the constable had with his feet and his habit of cooling them off in the waters
of the brook.

‘He
sits on the bank and dabbles them, so it would be easy to push him in.’

‘Easy
as pie.’

‘Only—’

‘Only
you have qualms about doing it.’

Crispin
said that that was just it, and Barney said she quite understood.

‘Doesn’t
do for a man in your position, that sort of thing. Didn’t you tell me you were
a judge or a magistrate or something?’

‘I am a
justice of the peace.

That
makes it awkward. If he catches you, you’ll come up before yourself and have to
send yourself to the cooler for ninety days, coupled with some strong remarks
from the bench. H’m. Not so good. But I see a way out.’

‘You
do?’

‘Sure.
I’ll take on the job. Much better that way. Much more likely to get results.
You’re kind of frail, you mightn’t push hard enough, but I’m the muscular type
and if I lean on someone who’s sitting on a bank and dabbling his feet in a
brook, he goes into that brook special delivery. I’m glad that’s settled. Takes
a weight off your mind, I shouldn’t wonder.’

And as
she spoke these words love came to Crispin Scrope. It had come to him twice
before in his earlier days and had flickered out, which was what had led to his
two breach of promise cases, but this time he knew that it had come to stay.

4

Finding as the result of
his researches in the
Railway Guide
that the last train to London had
left ‘some twenty minutes previously and was now well out of reach, Jerry
returned to the library, feeling that with the girl he loved away he might as
well be there as anywhere.

His
mood was buoyant. Any doubts he may have had that he would soon be getting his
money and so would be in a position to combine a proposal of marriage with
self-respect had vanished. He had no high opinion of his Uncle Crispin’s
executive abilities, but surely even he was capable of pushing a policeman into
a brook. And the policeman once pushed, the last obstacle to the happy ending
would be removed.

These
reflections, assisted by one of Crispin’s excellent cigars, had the effect of
inducing in him a sort of soppy benevolence towards the whole human race. When
the door opened and Homer Pyle entered, he welcomed him with a bright smile.
His acquaintance with him had been limited to a few exchanges on the subject of
the weather, but he was a member of the human race and as such entitled to be
smiled brightly at. In his present euphoric frame of mind he would have smiled
brightly at Chippendale.

Knowing
how interested Homer was in the weather, he made it the subject of his opening
remark.

‘Oh,
hullo,’ he said. ‘Nice afternoon.’

‘Yes,’
said Homer.

The
sunshine. Good for the crops.’

‘Yes,’
said Homer.

‘Going
to hold up, apparently. They tell me there is a ridge of high pressure
extending over the greater part of the United Kingdom south of the Shetland
Isles. Sounds promising.’

‘Yes,’
said Homer. ‘I am looking for Mr Scrope.’

‘He
went out for a stroll. He should be back soon. Was it something important?’

‘Very.
There is a mouse in my bedroom. I want to draw it to his attention.’

Jerry
was conscious of a feeling of pity for his Uncle Crispin. The paying guests, he
supposed, were always coming to him and beefing about something. If it wasn’t
mice, it was dripping taps, and if it wasn’t dripping taps, it was funny
smells. Very wearing. No wonder the poor blighter had that careworn look.

‘I’m
sorry,’ he said. ‘No joke having a mouse in your bedroom.’

‘It
makes a scratching noise.

‘I’ll
bet it does. And you never know it won’t go further and bite your toes. ‘Well,
I’ll mention it to my uncle if I see him before you do, and I’m sure he’ll lay
on a cat.’

‘If you
will. Thank you.’

‘Not at
all.’

Homer
withdrew, and Jerry was glad to see him go. At any other time he would have
welcomed his company, for he was sure that, if drawn out, he would have a lot
more interesting stuff to say about mice and bedrooms, a subject on which so
far he had merely touched, but he wanted to be alone, to think of Jane.

He rose
and began to pace the floor. This took him to the window, and he stood there
looking out.

He was
thus in a position to see the car which had just driven up to the front door.
It was an expensive-looking car. One got the impression that it must belong to
somebody who had no need to watch the pennies.

And so
it did. The expensive-looking chauffeur alighted and opened the door, and
Willoughby Scrope stepped out.

5

Jerry gave him a welcoming
‘Hi!’, adding perhaps unnecessarily ‘I’m up here.’ He was glad to see his Uncle
Bill, for his advent had saved him a tedious journey to London. No need now to
go to Chelsea Square and make his report. It could be done more comfortably on
the premises of Mellingham Hall over a cigar and a drink. He pressed the bell
for Chippendale, who entered just as Willoughby was settling himself in an arm
chair.

‘Want
something, mate?’ said Chippendale.

‘Scotch
and soda,’ said Jerry, knowing his uncle’s tastes, and Chippendale in his
affable way said, ‘Scotch and soda, mate. Coming right up,’ and withdrew.
Willoughby followed him with an enquiring eye.

‘Who’s
that?’

‘Chippendale,
Uncle Crispin’s butler.’

‘He
doesn’t look like a butler to me.

‘I said
in my letter, if you remember, that he was a bit unusual.’

‘Where
on earth did Crispin dig him up?’

‘I
couldn’t tell you.’

‘He
looks like a consumptive hen.’

There
is a certain resemblance.’

‘Does
he always call you mate?’

‘Not
invariably. Sometimes chum or pal or cocky.’

‘If he
addresses me like that I’ll punch him in the eye.’

‘I’ve
often felt like doing it myself. But you’ve got to bear in mind one thing about
Chippendale. He has a great brain. He thinks quick. Without him we should never
have got your
Girl in Blue
back. Ah,’ said Jerry, as the man they were
discussing entered bearing a loaded tray. ‘Put it down on that little table.
Thank you, Chippendale.’

The
pleasure is mine, cocky,’ said Chippendale courteously. ‘You’ll like this
whisky, chum,’ he added to ‘Willoughby. ‘It’s good stuff. Not a headache in a
hog’s head.’

He
withdrew again, pleased to have been of service, and Willoughby, though he had
been addressed as chum, showed no disposition to speed him on his way with a
punch in the eye. He was leaning forward in his chair, the whisky and soda
temporarily forgotten, registering joy so competently that any motion-picture
magnate who had seen him would have signed him up on a long contract without
hesitation.

‘What
did you say?’ he gurgled. ‘You’ve got it back?’

‘All
but.’

The
reply appeared to displease Willoughby. He registered bewilderment and
impatience.

‘What
the devil do you mean
all but?
Where is it?’

‘Chippendale
has it.’