Читать книгу Death of My Aunt - C. H. B. Kitchin - Страница 4

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The train arrived punctually, and before I had time to get a porter I found Uncle Hannibal shaking my hand and picking up my heavy bag, which he carried for me to Aunt Catherine’s car. Dace, the chauffeur, I noticed, made no attempt to help him when he put the bag on the front seat, and barely returned my “Good evening.” I remembered him with dislike from my last visit—a well-made, wiry little fellow with shrewd eyes.

“It’s awfully good of you to come on the spur of the moment,” my uncle said, with obsequious friendliness.

“Not at all,” I murmured. “It’s nice to see you again. How is Aunt Catherine?”

“Oh,” he said, “she’s really very well. Of course her heart’s not O.K., but it’s nothing to worry about, except I wish she’d lie up a bit more. When you’re getting on, you can’t take lib—”

He stopped suddenly, as if it occurred to him that Aunt Catherine would have disapproved of his reference to her “getting on.” I longed to ask him why she wanted to see me, but thought it wiser to leave him to tell me. Instead, I began to talk about our other relatives with that guilty effusiveness which often attends family reunions.

“I hope Uncle Terence is well?”

“Oh, yes. He’s been away fishing in Wales for the last week. He’s due back in a few days.”

“Is Aunt Anne with him?”

“No. She’s at home—poor woman.”

“Poor woman?”

“Oh, I suppose you haven’t heard. Teirson’s got into a silly scrape of some sort at Cannes, and has been threatening to blow his brains out or something. Anne got a wire from Augusta last Saturday, and a letter on Tuesday. Augusta seems to want her mother to go down there. Of course that’s out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t think she’s fit to travel. As a matter of fact, she went to town to see a specialist today. Muriel went with her.”

“This is bad news. What is it?”

“I don’t quite know. It may be nothing, after all. She gets nervy about herself, I believe.”

“I am sorry. I hope it is only her imagination. But oughtn’t Uncle Terence to come back, in view of all these troubles?”

“I’m not sure that Terence has been told.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

He did not answer, and I thought it best to change the subject.

“Mother seems quite happy about Isobel,” I said.

“Oh, of course, your sister. I meant to ask about her. I’m awfully glad to hear that.”

“I rather wondered if I ought to come,” I continued, leading to the subject which I wanted him to approach, “in case anything goes wrong, but your wire seemed rather urgent and I thought I’d risk it.”

“By Jove, yes. To tell you the honest truth, I’d clean forgotten about Isobel. Just shows how people get out of touch when they live a long way away, doesn’t it? I hope you’re not upset. Your aunt suddenly wanted to see you, and I thought you mightn’t have anything on for the week-end. I’m afraid you must have had a rush. Did you get the wire in good time?”

“When I got home, about half-past six.”

“Lord, I thought the Stock Exchange shut at four. That’s why I wired to Gloucester Place.”

I spent the rest of the drive explaining how, though official dealings stopped at four o’clock, stockbrokers’ offices could not close till much later.

“Well, here we are,” he said, opening the door and jumping out. Then he turned to Dace.

“Take Mr. Warren’s bag upstairs, will you, and unpack it. Is it locked, Malcolm?”

“No,” I said, amused to notice that Uncle Hannibal called me Mr. Warren to the family servants, while any other relation would have said “Mr. Malcolm.” Unobservant with my eyes, I prided myself on seizing psychological nuances. Dace gave a grunt which sounded not unlike “Righto,” and drove the car round to the garage. Otho House acquired a garage when it acquired Uncle Hannibal. Till that time, Aunt Catherine had been content with my uncle’s garage in the town.

My uncle unlocked the front door and we went inside, through a vestibule, where I left my hat, coat, and umbrella, into the hall, which, with its nondescript panelling and archaic lighting, reminded me always of one of the less sacred parts of a church.

“How about a spot of whisky before we turn in?”

I agreed gladly. Uncle Hannibal had his merits. John Dennis had been a convinced teetotaler, and had so indoctrinated Aunt Catherine against alcohol that, during her widowhood, she never had any in the house. She had given way to her second husband, and the drinks were openly waiting for us in the drawing-room.

The room which I call the drawing-room should have been, but never was, called the living-room. It occupied the east side of the house, and had windows in the three outside walls. An old but serviceable piano stood on the right of the door, while on the left was a heavy bookcase containing the English Classics in pompous bindings. Neither the bookcase nor the Classics opened easily. A few shelves by the fireplace held lighter literature, dating from 1900.

I sat down on a sofa at right angles to the fireplace, though there was no fire, and my uncle sprawled opposite to me in a chair padded in the wrong places, and fitted with arm rests which it was impossible to use. I remember him stretching his big legs and resting his feet inside the marble fender. He looked immensely strong, but a little too stout. It was as if the physical training instructor had been out of work for a week or two and had begun to forget his exercises. I noticed also traces of uneasiness in his manner, and once or twice caught on his face the vacant expression of a distracted mind. I remember wondering lazily, as I saw him sipping his whisky, how he kept himself occupied. The family had been so concerned as to how Aunt Catherine could bring herself to live with him that they never asked how he could bring himself to live with her.

When he spoke, a slight thickening in his voice told me that his whisky had been strongly mixed.

“It’s a bit hard,” he said, “to tell you exactly why I wired for you. Don’t exactly know myself. Your aunt”—(his way of saying “yer aunt” reminded me of my nurse)—“took a craze to see you quite suddenly. It’s about her investments, of course.”

I repressed a movement of joy. This is what I had been hoping for.

“She read that bit from the paper you sent me,” he continued, “and seemed quite struck with it.”

I must confess that, in the hope of persuading Aunt Catherine to take a more active interest in the services which I could render her, I had sent Uncle Hannibal a reasonable article on the dangers of letting investments look after themselves for too long. This little piece of touting had been more a matter of form than anything else—an effort to support in print the suggestions which I had let fall verbally from time to time.

“Of course,” he went on, “you’ll wonder why she didn’t write, or ask me to write, and what’s the hurry anyway? But she likes things done quickly, you know. I’m quite in the dark myself. You’d be surprised how little I know about her affairs. Maybe she’s going in for a big gamble, though I told her you said it wasn’t the time, with New York on the selling tack. But when women are getting on—”

Again the unfortunate phrase stopped him.

“It’s exceedingly kind of Aunt Catherine,” I said. (My uncle’s conversation always made my own stilted.) “In any case, it won’t matter whether she wants to do anything or not. I’m very glad to be here. I’ll leave her to start the subject.”

“Well, there’s no need to do that,” he replied. “In fact, she thinks you’re going to look at her investment book tonight. We expected you a bit earlier, you see, and she got quite worked up. ‘Do you think he’ll be here by dinner-time?’ she kept saying. You wouldn’t believe it. In the end I said, ‘You go to bed, Catherine. You can’t do anything tonight,’ but she was so sure you’d want to get to work as soon as you got here that she asked me to hand you this.”

He took an envelope from his pocket, gave it to me, and filled his glass. I looked at the envelope with rising excitement. It was sealed with wax, and addressed in pencil to “Malcolm Warren, Esq., At Otho House,” in my aunt’s writing. Inside I could feel something hard, like a key.

“Life’s a queer business, Malcolm. I don’t know what’s in that envelope—key of yer aunt’s bureau, most likely. Fact is, I’m not exactly in her confidence; I don’t like admitting that, but it’s not surprising. After all—no use blinking at matters—I am a bit of an intruder here, and your relations aren’t all too eager to see me settling down. At first, I thought we’d all become good pals, but just lately—well, I don’t know. Your Uncle Terence never took to me. I don’t blame him. He’s a cultured man, and had a first-class education. Anne’s different, but her children don’t care for me either. Bob’s hand-in-glove with the Dennis crowd now.”

“He’s a partner with the two Dennis solicitors, isn’t he?”

“Has been, for about a year. Good chap, Bob, but we don’t hit it off.”

“Nor do I,” I said, wishing to repay confidence with confidence.

“Don’t you, now? That’s queer. You’re both the same sort—well-educated—”

“That doesn’t count for much. Besides, I don’t consider Bob educated, although he went to a good school.”

It was unwise of me to talk like this, but Uncle Hannibal’s outspokenness had gone to my head, as the whisky had gone to his. It was such a relief, too, to admit that I was not wholly enchanted by the Carvels—(see Group III)—that I exaggerated. In reality I felt for them little but indifference. Uncle Terence had never liked me as a boy. I think he was jealous of my getting a scholarship at Oxford within a few months of his own son’s being ploughed for Smalls. Bob was very good at games, and my weakness at them was another sore point with me. Besides, I heard indirectly that he once called me a “pale worm,” and this I found hard to forgive. Muriel and Henrietta I detested, partly because they were rude to their mother, whom I admired, and partly because they were always rude to me. I think I can say with fairness that, with the exception of Aunt Anne and Augusta, whose absurd marriage had won my sympathy, they were all conceited. They had some justification. They were all exceedingly good-looking, quick and bright, and had, when they wished, the most attractive manners. In their company my reserved and more introspective nature made me feel something of a kill-joy—always a little too serious. All families have their petty jealousies. At the age of twenty-six, I had outgrown actual ill-will towards my cousins, but I could not feel very tenderly for Uncle Terence, and my mother had not helped to heal the breach by hinting that Bob had had a mistress while articled to some solicitors in London. Unfortunately, the suggestion was too true to be funny.

My uncle put down his empty glass, looked at the decanter and then at me.

“Well,” he said, “I expect you want to open yer aunt’s letter, and I dare say you’re a bit fagged after the week’s work and the journey. Like to go up?”

“I think we might. What room am I having?”

“The bachelor’s room. A rat died under the floor of the spare room, and they had to take the boards up.”

He opened the drawing-room door for me, and turned off the light. When we were half-way upstairs, the telephone bell rang from a recess in the hall. With a muttered apology, my uncle darted past me and attended to the call, while I walked slowly upstairs and groped about for the switch on the landing. Of my uncle’s conversation, I only remember the words, “going on fine, thanks.... Had dinner in her boudoir.... Good-night.” He joined me just as I had found the switch.

“Ought to have been in bed long ago,” he said in a loud whisper.

“Who? Do you mean us?”

“No, that old busybody, Maria Hall. What does she want ringing up at this time of night? She had tea with yer aunt yesterday, and seems to have got scared about her health. This is your room. A bit poky after the spare room, but better than the other little room in front.”

The door of my bedroom was a few feet to the west of the head of the stairs. A passage, with a door in either wall, led to a window in the west wall of the house. There was a corresponding passage on the east side of the landing, with one door on the north side and two on the south side, and ending with a fourth door, that of my aunt’s bathroom. To the north of this passage was the spare room, in which the rat had died, and to the south were two rooms—my aunt’s bedroom, which took up the south-east corner of the house, and another room which I assumed was my uncle’s.

“You’re in there,” I said, pointing to it.

“No,” he said, “yer aunt’s turned that into a boudoir since you were here. I’m on the other side of you, in the end room. That’s the bathroom, opposite my door. We had it put in when yer aunt turned me out, so she has her private bath now. I hope there’ll be plenty of hot water in the morning. Has he unpacked properly for you?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I said, seeing my things set out in a haphazard fashion.

“You’ve got h. and c. laid on, you see,” my uncle continued. “Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable. So long.”

He shut the door, and I heard him turn out the light on the landing and go past my door to his own room.

On previous visits to Otho House, I had been given either the spare room or the small room in the north-west corner of the house, which my uncle had referred to as “that other little room in front.” The one which I now occupied did not please me. The lights were badly placed, and so also was the furniture, which was too big for the room. There was a large dressing-table in front of the window, the wardrobe almost touching it on one side, and the washstand with its h. and c. on the other. Isolated from these, my bed lay along the wall of the passage, the foot screened from the door by a curtain of blue rep on a frame. The strange grouping was evidently due to the fact that the room had three doors, one leading into the passage, one in the west wall, leading, I supposed, into my uncle’s room, and another in the east wall, leading into the boudoir. Evidently the room was little more than a passage itself.

My first act, after mechanically turning out my pockets and lighting a cigarette, was to read my aunt’s letter.

“My dear Nephew Malcolm,

“Your Uncle Hannibal tells me that you expect to arrive about ten o’clock. I shall have gone to bed before that, but send you the key of my bureau in the boudoir—the room next to yours—so that you can have a look at my investment book, if you feel inclined, before you go to sleep. You will find the book lying on the top of the blotter. If you feel tired, leave it till tomorrow. From what your mother tells me, you need have no anxiety over your sister. Sleep well, and come to see me after breakfast.

“Your affectionate Aunt Catherine.

“P.S.—You will understand that I do not wish my investment book shown to any one, or its contents discussed.”

I was by now thoroughly excited. I took the key which I found in a corner of the envelope, and, opening the door between my room and the boudoir as quietly as I could, went to the bureau which I could see was by the window, and unlocked it with agitated fingers. The book was lying on the top of a leather blotter. I lifted it out reverently, shut the bureau, locked it, tiptoed back to my room, and shut the door.

I now began to undress and read the book at the same time. The entries were numerous. The earlier ones, dating from before the death of John Dennis, dealt with small sums, mostly in obscure stocks and shares, which I knew would be difficult to sell. After Uncle John’s death, however, the amounts were much larger and the investments of the most reputable kind. I remember sitting on my bed with my shirt half off and calculating, on the back of my aunt’s letter, the rough value of her securities. I began, also, to wonder what changes she would let me make, whether she would contemplate an investment in Swedish Match shares, Courtaulds, or Imperial Tobacco, and, if so, how much I should advise her to invest in each. I was, of course, eager to do my best for her, though, after I had put the book in a drawer, turned out the light and got into bed, I could not help calculating my share of the commission on her imaginary orders.

“Five hundred Swedish Match shares at 23.... Commission half-a-crown a share. Five hundred half-crowns, sixty-two pounds ten. My share, thirty-one pounds five. Two thousand Courtaulds at four and five-eighths....” The figures whirled in my head, till I decided that it was time to make an effort to go to sleep. Having tried to do so in vain for a quarter of an hour, I realised suddenly that there were far too few clothes on the bed. Except in the hottest weather, I can never get to sleep without a good weight on the top of me, and the single blanket and eiderdown with which I was provided were very insufficient. My silk dressing-gown made no appreciable difference, and I knew that there was nothing for it but to go downstairs and fetch my coat from the vestibule, or a rug if I could find one, to put on the bed. When I visit strange houses, I always try to smuggle my coat upstairs with me to meet this emergency, but in Otho House I had never suffered in this way before.

The door into the passage creaked loudly as I opened it, but I hoped, by creeping very quietly downstairs, not to awaken any one. There were no rugs to be seen in the vestibule, and I took my coat, in default of better covering. In the hall, I noticed an ash-tray, and took that too, as none was supplied in my room. Then I crept upstairs again, shut my door with great precaution, and got into bed. I suppose it was twenty minutes later that I fell asleep.

Something awakened me in the night, and I remember wondering lazily what the time was. There was no switch by my bed, however, and I was not sufficiently curious to get up in order to turn on the light and look at my watch. A thin shaft of light came from the keyhole of the door into my uncle’s room. I listened for a few moments, but, hearing no sound, concluded that he was reading in bed.