Читать книгу Scales of Justice - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 17

She considered that George gave only too clear a demonstration of being an ass when she caught a glimpse of him on the following evening. He was playing a round of golf with Mrs Cartarette. George, having attained the tricky age for Lacklanders, had fallen into a muddled, excited dotage upon Kitty Cartarette. She made him feel dangerous and this sensation enchanted him. She told him repeatedly how chivalrous he was and so cast a glow of knight-errantry over impulses that are not usually seen in that light. She allowed him only the most meagre rewards, doling out the lesser stimulants of courtship in positively homeopathic doses. Thus on the Nunspardon golf course, he was allowed to watch, criticize and correct her swing. If his interest in this exercise was far from being purely athletic, Mrs Cartarette gave only the slightest hint that she was aware of the fact and industriously swung and swung again while he fell back to observe, and advanced to adjust, her technique.

Lady Lacklander, tramping down River Path in the cool of the evening with a footman in attendance to carry her sketching impedimenta and her shooting-stick, observed her son and his pupil as it were in pantomime on the second tee. She noticed how George rocked on his feet, with his head on one side while Mrs Cartarette swung, as Lady Lacklander angrily noticed, everything that a woman could swing. Lady Lacklander looked at the two figures with distaste tempered by speculation. ‘Can George,’ she wondered, ‘have some notion of employing the strategy of indirect attack upon Maurice? But no, poor boy, he hasn’t got the brains.’

The two figures disappeared over the crest of the hill and Lady Lacklander plodded heavily on in great distress of mind. Because of her ulcerated toe she wore a pair of her late husband’s shooting-boots. On her head was a battered solar topee of immense antiquity which she found convenient as an eye-shade. For the rest, her vast person was clad in baggy tweeds and a tent-like blouse. Her hands, as always, were encrusted with diamonds.

She and the footman reached Bottom Bridge, turned left and came to a halt before a group of alders and the prospect of a bend in the stream. The footman, under Lady Lacklander’s direction, set up her easel, filled her water-jar at the stream, placed her camp stool and put her shooting-stick beside it. When she fell back from her work in order to observe it as a whole, Lady Lacklander was in the habit of supporting her bulk upon the shooting-stick.

The footman left her. She would reappear in her own time at Nunspardon and change for dinner at nine o’clock. The footman would return and collect her impedimenta. She fixed her spectacles on her nose, directed at her subject the sort of glance Nurse Kettle often bestowed on a recalcitrant patient, and set to work, massive and purposeful before her easel.

It was at six-thirty that she established herself there, in the meadow on the left bank of the Chyne not far below Bottom Bridge.

At seven, Mr Danberry-Phinn, having assembled his paraphernalia for fishing, set off down Watt’s Hill. He did not continue to Bottom Bridge but turned left, and made for the upper reaches of the Chyne.

At seven, Mark Lacklander, having looked in on a patient in the village, set off on foot along Watt’s Lane. He carried his case of instruments, as he wished to lance the abscess of the gardener’s child at Hammer, and his racket and shoes as he proposed to play tennis with Rose Cartarette. He also hoped to have an extremely serious talk with her father.

At seven, Nurse Kettle, having delivered Lady Lacklander’s note at Hammer, turned in at Commander Syce’s drive and free-wheeled to his front door.

At seven, Sir George Lacklander, finding himself favourably situated in a sheltered position behind a group of trees, embraced Mrs Cartarette with determination, fervour and an ulterior motive.

It was at this hour that the hopes, passions and fears that had slowly mounted in intensity since the death of Sir Harold Lacklander began to gather an emotional momentum and slide towards each other like so many downhill streams, influenced in their courses by accidents and detail, but destined for a common and profound agitation.

At Hammer, Rose and her father sat in his study and gazed at each other in dismay.

‘When did Mark tell you?’ Colonel Cartarette asked.

‘On that same night … after you came in and – and found us. He went to Nunspardon and his father told him and then he came back here and told me. Of course,’ Rose said, looking at her father with eyes as blue as periwinkles behind their black lashes, ‘of course it wouldn’t have been any good for Mark to pretend nothing had happened. It’s quite extraordinary how each of us seems to know exactly what the other one’s thinking.’

The Colonel leant his head on his hand and half-smiled at this expression of what he regarded as one of the major fallacies of love. ‘My poor darling,’ he murmured.

‘Daddy, you do understand, don’t you, that theoretically Mark is absolutely on your side? Because – well, because the facts of any case always should be demonstrated. I mean that’s the scientific point of view.’

The Colonel’s half-smile twisted, but he said nothing.

‘And I agree too, absolutely,’ Rose said, ‘other things being equal.’

‘Ah!’ said the Colonel.

‘But they’re not, darling,’ Rose cried out, ‘they’re nothing like equal. In terms of human happiness, they’re all cock-eyed. Mark says his grandmother’s so desperately worried that with all this coming on top of Sir Harold’s death and everything she may crack up altogether.’

The Colonel’s study commanded a view of his own spinney and of that part of the valley that the spinney did not mask; Bottom Bridge and a small area below it on the right bank of the Chyne. Rose went to the window and looked down. ‘She’s down there somewhere,’ she said, ‘sketching in Bottom Meadow on the far side. She only sketches when she’s fussed.’

‘She’s sent me a chit. She wants me to go down and talk to her at eight o’clock when I suppose she’ll have done a sketch and hopes to feel less fussed. Damned inconvenient hour, but there you are. I’ll cut dinner, darling, and try the evening rise. Ask them to leave supper for me, will you, and apologize to Kitty?’

‘OK,’ Rose said with forced airiness. ‘And, of course,’ she added, ‘there’s the further difficulty of Mark’s papa.’

‘George.’

‘Yes, indeed, George. Well, we know he’s not exactly as bright as sixpence, don’t we? But, all the same, he is Mark’s papa and he’s cutting up most awfully rough and …’

Rose caught back her breath, her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She launched herself into her father’s arms and burst into a flood of tears. ‘What’s the use,’ poor Rose sobbed, ‘of being a brave little woman? I’m not in the least brave. When Mark asked me to marry him I said I wouldn’t because of you and there I was: so miserable that when he asked me again I said I would. And now, when we’re so desperately in love, this happens. We have to do them this really frightful injury. Mark says: of course they must take it and it won’t make any difference to us, but of course it will. And how can I bear to be married to Mark and know how his people feel about you when next to Mark, my darling, darling Daddy, I love you best in the world? And his father’ – Rose wept – ‘his father says that if Mark marries me he’ll never forgive him and that they’ll do a sort of Montague and Capulet thing at us and, darling, it wouldn’t be much fun for Mark and me, would it, to be star-crossed lovers?’

‘My poor baby,’ murmured the agitated and sentimental Colonel; ‘my poor baby!’ And he administered a number of unintentionally hard thumps between his daughter’s shoulder blades.

‘It’s so many people’s happiness,’ Rose sobbed. ‘It’s all of us.’

Her father dabbed at her eyes with his own handkerchief, kissed her and put her aside. In his turn he went over to the window and looked down at Bottom Bridge, and up at the roofs of Nunspardon. There were no figures in view on the golf course.

‘You know, Rose,’ the Colonel said in a changed voice, ‘I don’t carry the whole responsibility. There is a final decision to be made and mine must rest upon it. Don’t hold out too many hopes, my darling, but I suppose there is a chance. I’ve time to get it over before I talk to Lady Lacklander and indeed I suppose I should. There’s nothing to be gained by any further delay. I’ll go now.’

He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer and took out an envelope.

Rose said: ‘Does Kitty?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the Colonel said. ‘She knows.’

‘Did you tell her, Daddy?’

The Colonel had already gone to the door. Without turning his head and with an air too casual to be convincing he said: ‘Oh, no. No. She arranged to play a round of golf with George and I imagine he elected to tell her. He’s a fearful old gas-bag is George.’

‘She’s playing now, isn’t she?’

‘Is she? Yes,’ said the Colonel; ‘I believe she is. He came to fetch her, I think. It’s good for her to get out.’

‘Yes, rather,’ Rose agreed.

Her father went out to call on Mr Octavius Danberry-Phinn. He took his fishing gear with him as he intended to go straight on to his meeting with Lady Lacklander and to ease his troubled mind afterwards with the evening rise. He also took his spaniel Skip who was trained to good behaviour when he accompanied his master to the trout stream.