Bland Beginning (11 page)

“The attic?” Edward stared at her.

“Papers – masses of old papers up there. We’re looking for a clue. Is the attic locked?”

“Certainly it is; and Mother’s got the key,” Edward said. “I’ve got more important things to think about – Mrs Curtis has some curious pains in her chest – but Vicky, I’m bound to say I can’t approve –”

Halfway up the stairs she turned and put out her tongue at him. He went into his surgery, and slammed the door. Basingstoke was hovering at the bottom of the stairs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be here. I don’t think your brother was altogether pleased to see me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Come up. Mother. Mother, where are you?” Basingstoke reflected that she was much better looking when her face was animated than when it was in repose.

The door of a room on the first floor opened. “If it’s something to do with dinner,” Mrs Rawlings said, “I have a bad headache. I spent all the morning arguing with cook about lunch and then she misunderstood everything I said and it was really quite uneatable.” She peered over the dark stairway. “Why, Mr Basingstoke, how do you do? I had no idea you were there.”

“He’s come to help me look in the attic, Mother. Have you got the key?” Vicky asked.

“I expect so, my dear,” Mrs Rawlings said placidly. She produced a large bunch of keys and fumbled through them. “This is the padlock key for that iron coal-bunker we sold, and this is the old key to the front door before we changed the lock, and this is the key to the surgery cupboard – though why I have that I can’t think – and this is the key to the attic, and this Yale – now, whatever can this Yale be for.”

“Mother,” Vicky said with elaborate patience, “it’s just the attic key we want.”

“Oh yes, of course.” With a seraphic smile, Mrs Rawlings took the attic key off the ring and gave it to her daughter. “But whatever is Mr Basingstoke going to do in the attic?”

“We think there may be something about that book.”

“Do you?” Mrs Rawlings looked doubtful, and then brightened “I suppose it’s all right. If you find a pair of black kid gloves, bring them down. I can’t think where they have got to, but they may be in the attic.”

“Yes, Mother.” She gestured impatiently to Basingstoke. “Come on.”

They went up another flight of stairs, and then up a stepladder into a loft. “The attic’s a separate room at the end,” she said. “Mind your head.” Suddenly she screamed, flung herself into Basingstoke’s arms and just as suddenly moved out of them again. He was left with a disturbing recollection of a womanly scent. “What was that?” she asked. Her eyes were wide.

“Probably a mouse,” he said, though in fact he had heard nothing.

“I’m terrified of mice,” she said, and indeed she was shivering. “Stay close to me, won’t you?”

“Yes.” He put his hand on her arm, and felt it warm but quivering. “How far ahead is the attic?”

“Here it is.” Basingstoke struck a match, and she put the key into a small door. The key creaked as it turned. By the flame of his match, Basingstoke saw a switch just inside the door. He pressed it, and a dusty electric lamp lighted up a collection of books, broken furniture and china, a rusty bicycle, several pictures and two tin trunks. She pounced on one of these, and opened it. “Look,” she said dramatically, and Basingstoke saw a great mass of papers underneath a film of dust. “We’ll both take a handful,” she said eagerly, and, sitting on the other tin trunk, began to leaf through a collection of bills, theatre programmes and letters, muttering to herself as she did so in a way that Basingstoke found slightly reminiscent of her mother. He sat by her side, rather precariously, on a three-legged chair.

“Bills! Bills! Goodness knows why we keep them. How the price of everything has gone up. Bourbon biscuits – I used to love them when I was thirteen years old, and now the very sight of them makes me sick.
Elementary Studies in Human Pathology –
that must have belonged to brother Edward when he was studying, don’t you think? Yes, here’s his name in it. Here’s a programme for
The Maid of the Mountains –
that was a wonderful show.” She looked at him suddenly, and then said, with the mantle of the literary lady assumed again, “I used to think so long ago. Of course, we were very young then. Uncle Jack took us to see it. It was a great treat.” She tossed back a strand of dark hair that had fallen over her eye. “Uncle Jack. We ought to see Uncle Jack.”

“Who is Uncle Jack?”

“His name’s not really Jack, it’s Caesar, but we call him Jack because Caesar’s such a ridiculous name. He was Papa’s elder brother, and he inherited the estate and money when grandfather Martin died. Papa quarrelled with him terribly, because he thought he should have had half of the money. I expect grandfather Martin would have left him some, but he died without making a will. Uncle Jack wanted Papa to have some money, but he wouldn’t accept anything less than half. He thought that was his right. They had a frightful quarrel, and kept it up for years. In fact, Papa never made it up, and Edward hasn’t really either – he’s awfully cantankerous, you know, very much like Papa in many ways – but I sometimes go over and see him. Uncle Jack, I mean. He’s sweet, and I know if he can tell us anything he will.” She stared at him. “I say, what are we looking for, really?”

“Some papers to do with that first edition.” Basingstoke lifted the package of letters from her knee. “And if we’re going to find out anything we’d better ignore theatre programmes and bills for Bourbon biscuits.” He began to go through the papers methodically, putting any personal letters on one side. Vicky was not restrained from occasional indistinct mutterings, but for the most part they worked in silence. Most of the letters were to Vicky’s father, Edward, and it was apparent from a casual glance that his financial position had been insecure. There were letters asking for payment of accounts for medical equipment and supplies, and a whole series that seemed to consist of a protracted argument about payment for life insurance. Vicky sighed, as she read these – sighed in the manner of the grand lady. “Poor Papa. He had no head for money. None of our family has ever had any head for money. Even brother Edward hasn’t. We’re too artistic.” Something in Basingstoke’s look prompted her to add hurriedly, “But something always turns up. Or else Uncle Jack helps us out. He’s done that two or three times when we were in an awkward spot, but nobody gives him credit for it.” She dug into the bottom of the trunk. “These look older. Yes, they are – I say, here are some letters that begin ‘My dear Martin’. But they all seem to be notes from friends.” She looked through them rapidly and dug further. “Look, here are some letters from publishers – but it’s not the firm you said – it’s somebody called Winster, Marlow & Company. Who are they?”

“They were your grandfather’s publishers – that is, they published the 1868 edition of
Passion and Repentance
that caused so much fuss, and his later books too.”

“These are all letters about the later ones,” Vicky said, turning over the yellowed sheets. “Oh, here are one or two about the first book. They don’t tell us anything, though, do they, because they’re the wrong date – 1868.”

“No, they don’t – yes they do, though. This one does.” Basingstoke tapped one of the sheets excitedly with his forefinger. “Listen to this – dated November 30th, 1867 – ‘We shall be pleased to publish your sonnet series,
Passion and Repentance
, on the terms already agreed. We understand that none of these poems has previously been published, either in book form or in periodical publication. We shall be glad if you will let us have formal confirmation on this point.’ Do you know your grandfather’s handwriting?”

“No. Why?”

“Because there’s a note on the side – look. It says: ‘Wrote 7 December ’67 and gave the assurance required regarding publication.’” Basingstoke put down the letter. His face was twitching slightly on the scarred side. “Could your Uncle Jack tell us about the handwriting? Or your mother?”

Vicky moved on her tin trunk. “Better to ask Uncle Jack, I think. He’d be certain to know – and he might be able to tell us something else. I say, it’s rather exciting, isn’t it?” Her mind moved in a whirl of forgers and midnight chases.

He said in his rich, deep voice, “Where does Uncle Jack live?”

“About thirty miles away, at a little village called Milling-ham. You’ll like him – he’s a sweet old boy, and intelligent too. Doesn’t like brother Edward, but he’s very fond of me. He says I’m the beauty of the family. Do you think so?”

“Yes,” Basingstoke said. He kissed her awkwardly on the side of her cheek and nose. “I think you are much more beautiful than your brother.”

She looked at him in a contemplative way, and he wondered what thoughts were moving in her mind. He would have been surprised to know that she was wondering whether she should make a note in her diary. “Come on,” she said. “I expect the car’s in the garage.” It was, and they stood looking at it. “Edward should have finished his rounds by now. I think we’ll just take it.”

“But supposing somebody wants him urgently?”

“He can use his bicycle. The exercise will be good for him. He uses the car too much. I’m sure half his worries are caused by indigestion.” As they drove away Edward’s startled face could be seen at a window. “Onward,” said Vicky, taking her hands off the steering wheel and narrowly missing a dog. “Onward to Uncle Jack.”

They found Uncle Jack chopping logs in his garden. He was a small man in his sixties, with a round red apple of a face, and a rather extravagantly fierce manner. He greeted Vicky warmly. “Nice of you to come and see an old fogy like me.” He drew a handkerchief across his brow.

Vicky was slightly flirtatious. “You aren’t an old fogy, Uncle Jack, when you can chop up logs like that. This is my friend, Mr Basingstoke. A writer,” she added after a moment’s thought.

“How do you do, sir. You from London?” He spoke as though London were five hundred instead of thirty miles away.

“Why, yes.”

“And what’s the news in the clubs, sir, eh? When’s this Government going to be out?”

“Mr Basingstoke hasn’t much connection with politics, Uncle. He’s a poet,” Vicky said, with surprising promptness.

“Ah,” Uncle Jack said. He looked at his watch. “I must just finish these logs. Exercise, you know – must have an hour every day. MacDonald – Snowden – Henderson” he said as he resumed the rhythm of log-chopping. “Ruin of the country. Got to get rid of ’em.” Chips of wood flew in all directions. “Not a question of being interested in politics – just plain common sense. Do you know what the farmers are saying about this Government?” A storm of blows prevented them from hearing what the farmers were saying. Uncle Jack threw down his axe and contemplated the pile of logs with satisfaction. He turned to his niece.

“You’ve got a look in your eye I don’t like, Victoria. There’s something you’re wanting, I can tell that. You’ve not come over here just to see
me.
But you’re in for it now.” He showed them a barn converted into a games-room, an elaborately laid-out rose garden and beyond it the new asparagus beds. Then he stopped and stared at Basingstoke. “A poet, eh, sir. My father was a poet.”

“I know his works, of course.”

“He lived the last years of his life here. Used to sit writing on this lawn.” They came to a small, perfectly-kept lawn at the end of the path. “He sat out here with his chair and table – always put it just here, where he could see the house.” Through a hedge they saw clearly the back of the finely proportioned Georgian house. Uncle Jack shook his head. “This hedge was thicker in those days. How’s Edward?” he asked so abruptly that Vicky was taken aback.

“He’s very well, really. Worrying as usual.”

“He’s got something to worry about now. Didn’t help to put ’em in, did he?”

“You know Edward’s a Liberal, Uncle Jack.”

“Liberal, indeed.” He hacked fiercely at a dandelion. “And what are the Liberals doing? Keeping ’em in. If Lloyd George gave the word, they’d be out tomorrow. But there – a little Welsh lawyer – I never did trust him. Hope you’re not Welsh, sir?” Basingstoke shook his head. “Very glad to hear it. Always putting my foot in it. Have done ever since I was a boy by saying just what I thought.” The red-apple face broke into a laugh, revealing fine false teeth. “Come in and have a cup of tea.”

He led them into a large and comfortable sitting-room. A large picture hung over the mantelpiece. “That’s your father, isn’t it, Mr Rawlings?” Basingstoke asked.

“Ah. Millais’ portrait of him after he came back from Italy. He was thirty-six then.” Behind the traditional growth of beard and side-whisker the painter had seen a sharp and handsome face. The hair was thick and brown above a low forehead, the eyes glowed sombrely, the mouth was a thin line. The face was powerful, and also in some way sinister, and even menacing. Basingstoke stared at the portrait, lost in some obscure conjectures of his own, until his host coughed. “I’m at your service, Victoria, my dear. What can I do for you?”

Vicky explained and Basingstoke, silent, watched the changes on Uncle Jack’s mobile, cherry-apple face. At first an expression of incredulity showed itself, but this was succeeded by a rather comic look of intense concentration as she recounted the evidence regarding the publisher’s name, and finally produced the letter from Winster, Marlow.

“Certainly been to some trouble, haven’t you?” Uncle Jack said, only half-jovially. “Blessed if I can understand why. There’s your young man up in London seeing this Jebb fellow, and you’re down here. What are you trying to do, besmirch your old grandfather’s name?”

“I don’t think that’s in question,” Basingstoke said. “Obviously, if there is a forgery, Martin Rawlings wouldn’t have been a party to it.”

“How do you know?” Uncle Jack said fiercely. “Quite the contrary. He might ’a done anything when he was a young man. Let me see that letter, Victoria, my dear, will you?” He looked at the annotation on the letter. “That’s your grandfather’s hand right enough, no doubt of that. Neat and crabbed. Can’t mistake it. Hum. Mind if I smoke a pipe?” He took out a pipe, filled it methodically, and lighted it. “Takes me back, all this does, takes me back a long way.” He began to make a sucking noise with the pipe. “I don’t take much stock of this so-called evidence of yours. Take this letter here. My father – rest his soul – was wild in his youth and uncommon respectable and churchish after he came into money.”