The Seven Dials Mystery (23 page)

“Bundle has suggested that I should go to Chimneys with her for a bit.”

“Excellent,” said Jimmy approvingly. “Nothing could be better. I'd like an eye kept on Bundle anyway. You never know what mad thing she won't get up to next. She's so frightfully unexpected. And the worst of it is, she's so astonishingly successful. I tell you, keeping Bundle out of mischief is a whole-time job.”

“Bill ought to look after her,” suggested Loraine.

“Bill's pretty busy elsewhere.”

“Don't you believe it,” said Loraine.

“What? Not the Countess? But the lad's potty about her.” Loraine continued to shake her head.

“There's something there I don't quite understand. But it's not the Countess with Bill—it's Bundle. Why, this morning, Bill was talking to me when Mr. Lomax came out and sat down by Bundle. He took her hand or something, and Bill was off like—like a rocket.”

“What a curious taste some people have,” observed Mr. Thesiger. “Fancy anyone who was talking to you wanting to do anything else. But you surprise me very much, Loraine. I thought our simple Bill was enmeshed in the toils of the beautiful foreign adventuress. Bundle thinks so, I know.”

“Bundle may,” said Loraine. “But I tell you, Jimmy, it isn't so.”

“Then what's the big idea?”

“Don't you think it possible that Bill is doing a bit of sleuthing on his own?”

“Bill? He hasn't got the brains.”

“I'm not so sure. When a simple, muscular person like Bill does set out to be subtle, no one ever gives him credit for it.”

“And in consequence he can put in some good work. Yes, there's something in that. But all the same I'd never have thought it of Bill. He's doing the Countess's little woolly lamb to perfection. I think you're wrong, you know, Loraine. The Countess is an extraordinarily beautiful woman—not my type of course,” put in Mr. Thesiger hastily—“and old Bill has always had a heart like an hotel.”

Loraine shook her head, unconvinced.

“Well,” said Jimmy, “have it your own way. We seem to have more or less settled things. You go back with Bundle to Chimneys, and for heaven's sake keep her from poking about in that Seven Dials place again. Heaven knows what will happen if she does.”

Loraine nodded.

“And now,” said Jimmy, “I think a few words with Lady Coote would be advisable.”

Lady Coote was sitting on a garden seat doing woolwork. The subject was a disconsolate and somewhat misshapen young woman weeping over an urn.

Lady Coote made room for Jimmy by her side, and he promptly, being a tactful young man, admired her work.

“Do you like it?” said Lady Coote, pleased. “It was begun by my Aunt Selina the week before she died. Cancer of the liver, poor thing.”

“How beastly,” said Jimmy.

“And how is the arm?”

“Oh, it's feeling quite all right. Bit of a nuisance and all that, you know.”

“You'll have to be careful,” said Lady Coote in a warning voice. “I've known blood poisoning set in—and in that case you might lose your arm altogether.”

“Oh! I say, I hope not.”

“I'm only warning you,” said Lady Coote.

“Where are you hanging out now?” inquired Mr. Thesiger. “Town—or where?”

Considering that he knew the answer to his query perfectly well, he put the question with a praiseworthy amount of ingenuousness.

Lady Coote sighed heavily.

“Sir Oswald has taken the Duke of Alton's place. Letherbury. You know it, perhaps?”

“Oh, rather. Topping place, isn't it?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Lady Coote. “It's a very large place, and gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding-looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire, Mr. Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall and a cheerful drawing room with an ingle-nook—a white striped paper with a frieze of wisteria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you know, not moiré. Much better taste, I always think. The dining room faced northeast, so we didn't get much sun in it, but with a good bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints—why, it was as cheerful as Christmas.”

In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Lady Coote. “Now, what was I saying? Oh—about houses—yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things for it gives you an interest.”

“I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these days,” suggested Jimmy. “And then you can have it just as you like.”

Lady Coote shook her head sadly.

“Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it—and you know what that means.”

“Oh! But they'd consult you!”

“It would be one of those grand places—all for the antique. They'd look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir Oswald wasn't very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit him now but the best! He's got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants something to show for it, but many's the time I wonder where it will end.”

Jimmy looked sympathetic.

“It's like a runaway horse,” said Lady Coote. “Got the bit between its teeth and away it goes. It's the same with Sir Oswald. He's got on, and he's got on, till he can't stop getting on. He's one of the richest men in England—but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more. He wants to be—I don't know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it frightens me sometimes!”

“Like the Persian Johnny,” said Jimmy, “who went about wailing for fresh worlds to conquer.”

Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was talking about.

“What I wonder is—will his stomach stand it?” she went on tearfully. “To have him an invalid—with his ideas—oh, it won't bear thinking of.”

“He looks very hearty,” said Jimmy consolingly.

“He's got something on his mind,” said Lady Coote. “Worried that's what he is.
I
know.”

“What's he worried about?”

“I don't know. Perhaps something at the works. It's a great comfort for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man—and so conscientious.”

“Marvellously conscientious,” agreed Jimmy.

“Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman's judgement. He says that Mr. Bateman is always right.”

“That was one of his worst characteristics years ago,” said Jimmy feelingly.

Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.

“That was an awfully jolly weekend I had with you at Chimneys,” said Jimmy. “I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn't been for poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls.”

“I find girls very perplexing,” said Lady Coote. “Not romantic, you know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own hair when we were engaged.”

“Did you?” said Jimmy. “How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven't got long hair to do that nowadays.”

“That's true,” admitted Lady Coote. “But, oh, it shows in lots of other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my—well, my young men—picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was taking a course in mineralogy—or do I mean geology?—at a technical school. But I liked the idea—and stealing a girl's handkerchief and treasuring it—all those sort of things.”

“Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose,” said the practical Mr. Thesiger.

Lady Coote laid down her woolwork and looked searchingly but kindly at him.

“Come now,” she said. “Isn't there some nice girl that you fancy? That you'd like to work and make a little home for?”

Jimmy blushed and mumbled.

“I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys that time—Vera Daventry.”

“Socks?”

“They do call her that,” admitted Lady Coote. “I can't think why. It isn't pretty.”

“Oh, she's a topper,” said Jimmy. “I'd like to meet her again.”

“She's coming down to stay with us next weekend.”

“Is she?” said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful longing into the two words.

“Yes. Would—would you like to come?”

“I
would,
” said Jimmy heartily. “Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote.”

And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.

Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.

“What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?” he demanded. “I can't stand that young fellow.”

“He's a dear boy,” said Lady Coote. “And so brave. Look how he got wounded last night.”

“Yes, messing around where he'd no business to be.”

“I think you're very unfair, Oswald.”

“Never done an honest day's work in his life. A real waster if there ever was one. He'd never get on if he had his way to make in the world.”

“You must have got your feet damp last night,” said Lady Coote. “I hope you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day. Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next weekend, by the way.”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Oswald. “I won't have that young man in my house, do you hear, Maria?”

“Why not?”

“That's my business.”

“I'm so sorry, dear,” said Lady Coote placidly. “I've asked him now, so it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?”

Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.

“I particularly don't want Thesiger down next weekend,” he said at last. “I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him.”

“What did Mr. Bateman say?”

“He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him.”

“He did, did he?” said Lady Coote thoughtfully.

“And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgement. I've never known him wrong.”

“Dear me,” said Lady Coote. “What a mess I seem to have made of things. Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now.”

She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her, made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond—in a quiet, unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner—of getting her own way.

Twenty-six

M
AINLY
ABOUT
G
OLF

“T
hat friend of yours is a nice girl, Bundle,” said Lord Caterham.

Loraine had been at Chimneys for nearly a week, and had earned the high opinion of her host—mainly because of the charming readiness she had shown to be instructed in the science of the mashie shot.

Bored by his winter abroad, Lord Caterham had taken up golf. He was an execrable player and in consequence was profoundly enthusiastic over the game. He spent most of his mornings lifting mashie shots over various shrubs and bushes—or, rather, essaying to loft them, hacking large bits out of the velvety turf and generally reducing MacDonald to despair.

“We must lay out a little course,” said Lord Caterham, addressing a daisy. “A sporting little course. Now then, just watch this one, Bundle. Off the right knee, slow back, keep the head still and use the wrists.”

The ball, heavily topped, scudded across the lawn and disappeared into the unfathomed depths of a great bank of rhododendrons.

“Curious,” said Lord Caterham. “What did I do then, I wonder? As I was saying, Bundle, that friend of yours is a very nice girl. I really think I am inducing her to take quite an interest in the game. She hit some excellent shots this morning—really quite as good as I could do myself.”

Lord Caterham took another careless swing and removed an immense chunk of turf. MacDonald, who was passing retrieved it and stamped it firmly back. The look he gave Lord Caterham would have caused anyone but an ardent golfer to sink through the earth.

“If MacDonald has been guilty of cruelty to Cootes, which I strongly suspect,” said Bundle, “he's being punished now.”

“Why shouldn't I do as I like in my own garden?” demanded her father. “MacDonald ought to be interested in the way my game is coming on—the Scotch are a great golfing nation.”

“You poor old man,” said Bundle. “You'll never be a golfer—but at any rate it keeps you out of mischief.”

“Not at all,” said Lord Caterham. “I did the long sixth in five the other day. The pro was very surprised when I told him about it.”

“He would be,” said Bundle.

“Talking of Cootes, Sir Oswald plays a fair game—a very fair game. Not a pretty style—too stiff. But straight down the middle every time. But curious how the cloven hoof shows—won't give you a six inch putt! Makes you put it in every time. Now I don't like that.”

“I suppose he's a man who likes to be sure,” said Bundle.

“It's contrary to the spirit of the game,” said her father. “And he's not interested in the theory of the thing either. Now, that secretary chap, Bateman, is quite different. It's the theory interests him. I was slicing badly with my spoon; and he said it all came from too much right arm; and he evolved a very interesting theory. It's all left arm in golf—the left arm is the arm that counts. He says he plays tennis left-handed but golf with ordinary clubs because there his superiority with the left arm tells.”