Dancers in Mourning (38 page)

‘Feller came and took Miss Finbrough off to help the police,' observed Uncle William presently. ‘Didn't hear the rights of it. Somethin' about needin' her assistance. As a masseuse, I suppose. Couldn't understand it. So many confusin' things happenin' all round one.'

His worried old voice trailed away into silence and he padded over to the window and looked out.

‘What's in the wind?' he asked at last.

Mr Campion sat up in bed. His impersonal, authoritative mood which Yeo had first noticed earlier in the morning still persisted. To Uncle William, who was a little bewildered by it, he seemed to have suddenly become a stranger.

‘Where is everybody?' he demanded.

‘Linda's out there.' The old man nodded towards the garden. ‘Sock's gone off in the Bentley and Jimmy and Slippers are practisin' in the drawin'-room with Mercer playin' for them, and in a damned condescendin' fashion, I don't mind tellin' you. Jimmy seems to have to keep up his practisin' all the time. He's workin' himself to death, poor feller. When's this infernal cloud goin' to lift, Campion? Upon my soul, it's a sin to have to think about some things on a day like this. Did the police succeed in findin' out who the ruffian in Sock's car was?'

Once again Mr Campion ignored his question and asked another.

‘Where has Sock gone?'

‘To see Eve.' Uncle William wandered back from the window. ‘We all waited up for the boy last night,' he explained, his small blue eyes rounding childishly as he made the confidence. ‘He came in dead-beat, had a word or two with Jimmy, and then they both told us the full story in the drawin'-room. He seemed ashamed he'd told the police so much, but, as I said to him, there are times when a man must choose between makin' serious trouble all round and givin' a friend away. Then the conscience is the only guide. I told him I was glad to see he had one and I flatter myself I spoke to him like a father.'

He paused.

‘It wasn't as if the girl had done anythin' really wrong, you see,' he added, neatly destroying his argument at a stroke. ‘Sock's attracted to her. He didn't actually say so, but I could see it with half an eye. So that's that. What a time for a lovers' quarrel, Campion! One can't expect women to be considerate, I know, but fancy runnin' off like that without a word when we were all so worried about somethin' else! If the girl wasn't so young I'd call her a hussy. Even so I didn't see quite why she chose that particular moment to clear out, did you? Sock wasn't quite up to the mark last night and I didn't care to press him. She'd had words with Jimmy, I understood. Don't know what about: do you?'

‘Some other man, I think.' Campion spoke absently.

‘So I gathered. But I didn't see who if it wasn't Sock.'

Campion dragged his mind away from the all-engulfing disaster which was so quickly approaching and tried to remember his conversation with Sock Petrie in the Lagonda before they had passed the shabby blue coupé.

‘She went off Sock and had a soulful affair with someone unlikely,' he said. ‘Either Sutane found out about it and put his foot down, or, since that note of hers was left uncollected for so long, perhaps the man faded away on his own account.'

‘And the poor little girl felt the world had come to an end,' cut in Uncle William happily. ‘That sounds more like the truth to me. It would account for her refusin' to come home. That's it, Campion, depend upon it. A blow at the pride. Known it drive a young girl off her head before now. Poor creature! Who is the whipper-snapper? Far too big for his boots. I'm an old man but –'

‘No,' said Campion, and added firmly: ‘I shouldn't.'

The belligerent light died out of Uncle William's eyes, albeit a trifle reluctantly.

‘Perhaps not,' he said. ‘I was forgettin'. Make matters worse, of course. Still, it's a pity we don't know who he is,' he added wistfully, looking at his plump fists. ‘Feel I'd like to do somethin' useful, you know. Suspense is gettin' us all under the weather. It's like a storm blowin' up. These dear people are bein' heroic. They're forcin' themselves to carry on. Jimmy looks like a skeleton and Linda's walkin' about like one of those dead workers in Haiti – what-d'ye-call-'em? – zombies.'

Campion took hold of himself.

‘Oh yes,' he said quietly, ‘I want to talk to you about Linda. Before she married, where did she live?'

‘With her mother, naturally.' Uncle William seemed to consider the question superfluous. ‘The old lady was the sister of the feller who owned this house. She has her little estate down in Devon. Very pretty place, I believe. There's money in that family, you know. Linda goes to stay with her sometimes and takes the child. What d'you want to know for?'

Campion shrugged his shoulders.

‘Idle curiosity,' he said. ‘I wondered what her background was, that was all.'

The old man was silent for a long time.

‘If you're worryin' about all this publicity breakin' Jimmy financially, she's got a home to go to,' he said at last, and his eyes, meeting Campion's own, dropped furtively. ‘I've made up my own mind and I'm stickin' to it,' he added with apparent irrelevance. ‘I told you that in this very room days ago. Linda's taken a fancy to you.'

Mr Campion stiffened.

‘I don't think so.'

Uncle William became the Man of the World,
circa
1910. It was his third happiest role, but one which he particularly enjoyed. His blue eyes became shrewd and tolerant.

‘When a woman's lonely – nice woman, trustworthy, sensible, capable of controllin' the team she's drivin' – then these harmless little affairs do her good, cheer her up, keep her young,' he said surprisingly. ‘They mean nothin'. She thinks of them as she thinks of the ornaments in her hair. The same with a man. It flatters him and keeps him a boy at heart. As long as they mind their manners and steer clear of sentimentality it's a good thing. After many years of experience I can honestly say I approve of it. Spice of life, you know. I don't like the dish drenched, but a modicum here and there improves the meal.'

Campion sat looking at him and once again Uncle William was conscious of him as a stranger.

‘I don't know if that's your view, my boy,' he added with hasty capitulation. ‘Bachelor's view.'

Campion laughed.

‘“If you haven't got the temperament philandering isn't pleasure,” Guv'nor,' he said. ‘That's a quotation from Don Marquis, probably the one philosophic poet of the generation. As far as I remember he said it apropos of Lancelot and Guinevere, which makes it a very enlightening remark.'

Uncle William looked mystified and uncomfortable.

‘Spanish feller?' he observed, feeling no doubt that the operative word, which he particularly disliked, had a continental origin. ‘Sorry I interfered, my boy. One stumbles across things and makes the mistake of rememberin' 'em. Fact is I keep leapin' on any subject which will take my mind off the trouble. Dare say you do, too. Don't care what happens to my show – I'm past that. I'm simply holdin' my breath and prayin' for a bit of peace for myself and my friends. When's it goin' to end? That's what I want to know, Campion. When's it goin' to end? Well, I know you'd tell me if you could. Since you can't I'll go down and potter until lunch-time.'

He padded off on plump crimson-shod feet and Campion got up and dressed slowly. He had ceased to consider his own personal part in the heart-breaking and irrevocable business. That problem had been faced and settled in his own flat when Linda had made her final appeal to him.

Since then he had found it possible to consider the miserable programme which circumstance and the unalterable part of his character had laid down for him by going through it steadily with one half of his conscious mind shut down. That there were flaws in this arrangement he discovered only too soon. He found himself doing unexpected things, making unreasonable detours, avoiding meetings, all to save himself the emotional reactions which he would ordinarily have experienced had he not taken his original precaution of mental semi-anaesthesia.

This morning, for instance, he found that he was dressing himself with extraordinary deliberation and not out of any particular desire for sartorial elegance. When the explanation did occur to him it shocked him. It was not pleasant to find that he was aiming to be late for lunch, so late that he might unobtrusively avoid eating Sutane's food at Sutane's table.

The discovery of this primitive taboo, with its physical reaction which decreed that he should not be hungry in spite of his neglected breakfast, left him both startled and irritated. It was like finding one half of himself suddenly under new management.

He pulled himself together impatiently. Yet when Lugg came surging in half an hour later he was still in his shirtsleeves.

The temporary butler was aggressively cheerful.

‘Another corpse yisterday, I 'ear,' he remarked, sitting down to rest his feet. ‘Quite an outin' for you, ain't it? Enjoyin' yerself? There's a bunch o' narks at either end of the lane, by the way. Does that mean anythink or is it just you showin' orf?'

His employer did not turn his head and, receiving no encouragement, Mr Lugg was silent for a moment or so. When the hush became oppresssive to him, however, he made a further attempt at small talk.

‘This is life, ain't it?' he observed with relish. ‘A certain amount o' class, but still free and easy. I'm like a duck in water 'ere, you know.'

Campion knotted his tie with careful neatness.

‘We shall probably both be leaving tonight,' he said without looking round. ‘Don't mention it to anyone. Simply get everything ready.'

The fat man did not blink. His small eyes rested on the tall figure silhouetted against the light.

It was a moment of great sadness.

Finally, Lugg sighed.

‘I knew it,' he said heavily. ‘I felt it comin' on. As soon as I saw you in the passage last week I thought to myself, 'Ullo, I thought. It's a funny thing, ain't it, 'ow you take to a place?' he went on, philosophic resignation in his thick voice. ‘I'd git sick of it in time, but up till now I've took a pride in the drawin'-room and I've bin interested in trainin' my young mate. She's on the three-card trick now. Comin' along a treat. We'll go after she's gone to bed, eh? We don't want a bloomin' cryin' set-out. You've made up yer mind to go today? It's a lovely day.'

His wistfulness was pathetic and Campion felt sudden sympathy for him.

‘I'm afraid so,' he murmured. ‘The party's over. Sorry.'

Lugg heaved his mountainous shoulders.

‘I'll take me tailcoat,' he remarked. ‘I 'ad it sent from the stores on your account. Largest they 'ad. Ten bob extra. It wouldn't fit anybody else. Make them look funny. You might ask all these people to dinner one night and I could wear it then, eh?'

Campion glanced out of the open window at the dancing garden.

‘I shouldn't hope for that, Lugg,' he said. ‘Take the coat by all means, if you want it. And now clear out, old boy, will you? I'm not in chatty mood.'

The large man got up obediently and lumbered towards the door.

‘Per'aps I'll git 'er perfect this afternoon,' he remarked optimistically. ‘She can't quite git the flip of the card in time with the moody. Oh, well, even the spadgers go back to London when the 'op-pickin's over. Git on with yer dressin'. Gong's goin' any minute now.'

He went off sadly and ten minutes afterwards Mr Campion followed him, late for lunch.

M
R
C
AMPION
sat near the house because he wanted to hear the telephone bell when it rang. Tea had been served on the terrace and now the company had split up into little groups. Linda, Sock Petrie and Eve were walking among the flowerbeds. The young man had brought the sulky, smouldering-eyed girl home just before the meal and Campion had marvelled at her self-possession as she had come swinging in to take her seat amongst them all. She had given no explanation and there had been no hint of apology in her manner; only an impenetrable, youthful defiance, both cool and rigidly polite.

Sock had managed her very well. He had adopted a cheerful superiority, whipping her over dangerous places in the conversation and devoting his whole attention to her.

Sutane and Slippers had rushed out for a cup of tea and rushed back again to the drawing-room. They had both slept during the afternoon after their arduous morning's work and had decided to put in another hour to the gramophone, since Mercer had grown tired of accompanying them.

That wearied genius had returned to the grand piano in the morning-room and now sat there, strumming his endless improvisations with the double doors closed to shut out the dance music.

Uncle William sat in a corner under the window. The Sunday papers were on his stomach and the decanter was at his side. He invariably refused to drink tea, insisting that it was effeminate or poison to his system according to the company in which he found himself.

Campion looked out across the flower-beds where the rainbow gladiolas and the second delphinium crop were blazing in the last of the full sunlight, and wondered if the day would ever end. The atmosphere of oppression had grown slowly until it was now unbearable.

They were all aware of it, even Mercer, whose habitual self-absorption had turned him into a silent, inanimate dummy at tea.

Campion had not looked directly at Sutane all day, although he had been acutely conscious of him all the time. The extraordinary nervous force of the dancer's personality had pervaded every room which he entered until the whole house seemed to tingle with him. He had rehearsed with a cold, passionate energy which had called forth comment even from the gentle Slippers Bellew.