Gay Phoenix (16 page)

Butter, it has been remarked, may well not have been telling the truth in declaring that dire enemies of the late Charles Povey, unaware of his being beyond the reach of vengeance, were abroad in the land. Butter may simply have been contriving a malign fiction, designed to demoralize Arthur Povey and thus increase his ascendancy over his employer. But however this may have been, he was certainly not wrong in asserting that Arthur Povey, at least for some time ahead, had no alternative to accepting a stiff seclusion as his present way of life.

Povey had, indeed, been right – brilliantly right – in guessing that great enterprises could be run by an invisible man, and large revenues, as a result, be appropriated for his use. His cables, his telephone calls, his brother’s scrawled signatures on a cheque or other document: it was plain that nobody sensed the slightest need to question these. One simple assumption of his false identity at the start had done the whole trick, and on the business side of things there hadn’t been a hitch. There had of course been, and there would continue to be, occasions upon which a personal appearance by the mystery man was essential. But these were in the main formal occasions round a table, arranged at the behest of equally eminent tycoons from other countries. They were all a sort of people who constantly moved from capital to capital, continent to continent, in luxuriously appointed private aeroplanes. They ate and drank a great deal; such mental clarity as survived their way of life was wholly concentrated upon the complex financial documents thrust under their nose by high-powered bankers and accountants and managers; they hadn’t the slightest interest in each other as human beings. Charles Povey as a kind of faceless man of legendary elusiveness and taciturnity, broodingly aloof until he snapped out some decision and departed, suited them very well. They admired his impersonal style, and sometimes even resolved to imitate it. Unless (as Povey, indeed, had increasing reason to fear) something very irregular indeed began to be insistently heard as at the heart, as constituting the very pulse, of the Povey empire, he was tolerably secure for a long time ahead.

Where he had gone wrong was in over-estimating the advantage he must gain from the glimpsed tenuousness and discontinuousness of his brother’s private life. The world was full of people who remembered Charles Povey perfectly well, who were interested in continuing to know him, who cherished plans for contacting him again in the interest of one hopeful design or another. It was this that made Arthur’s frequentation of fashionable resorts, expensive courtesans (in fact pretty well everything that makes life glorious) perpetually hazardous. Almost every sort of planned and foreseen encounter could be handled. But he was perpetually at the mercy of chance.

Perhaps Butter, too, hadn’t at first quite the measure of this. But he was right on the ball now, and had swiftly planned the measures necessary for survival. Povey was only beginning to glimpse how Draconian they were going to be. His virtual immurement in this beastly Brockholes Abbey of his childhood looked like being the cardinal point in Butter’s design. Povey was himself going to become a kind of latter day
moine malgré lui
– the sole member of an order closed and sealed off within the bounds of his own cloister. It was a perfectly nightmarish prospect.

All this was going gloomily through Povey’s head as he breakfasted in solitude on the following morning. (He had at least managed to be firm about not starting the day in Butter’s company.) But at the moment the effect of seclusion didn’t extend beyond the room in which he was being served. Elsewhere there was a lot of noise going on. In fact the house could be said to be humming with life. This effect didn’t proceed from its new domestic staff, which had on the whole the unobtrusiveness of persons professionally habituated to going about their activities quietly and unobserved. It was due to the fact there were still workmen of various sorts all over the place. This in itself didn’t annoy Povey. If he had to live at Brockholes as if it were the Castle of Chillon or some such place of dismal incarceration the dilapidated dump might as well be made tolerably smart and comfortable. What did disturb him was having been hustled into it so hastily, so that a smell of wet paint was mingling with that of his grilled kidneys now and he couldn’t move down a corridor without tumbling over somebody laying carpets.

In any circumstances all this would have been disagreeable to Povey, since he attached importance to maintaining, on land as at sea, a shipshape state of affairs around him. But what really bothered him was the haste with which Butter had huddled him into the house. Butter was tiresomely inclined to jeer at him as prone to panic, but this precipitate retreat looked very much like the work of one who was panicking himself. Perhaps Butter really did know more than he had told about some gathering storm.

But another thought now struck Povey. That there were people actually gunning for
him
(or for Charles, as they imagined him to be) was an assertion for which he had only Butter’s word; mere exposure in his imposture was his only certain and assured danger, and it was at least less alarming than the thought of enemies pursuing some obscure and potentially lethal personal vendetta. But people had really been gunning for Butter, and with the most nakedly homicidal intent. Their joint seaside adventure authenticated that. So wasn’t this hastily contrived Fortress Brockholes effect perhaps more in aid of Butter than of himself?

Povey found himself not particularly keen to follow up this kind of thinking. Being an intelligent man, he had come to recognize the danger inherent in building up a resentful attitude towards his associate; just let that get out of hand and they would both be in the soup. And Butter, after all, was also one of God’s creatures (although not so important and deserving a specimen as Arthur Povey) and entitled to play for his own hand. Taking this enlightened and humane view of the matter now, Povey did his best to thrust hostile impulses out of his head, and sought distraction in taking a prowl through his new and contracted empire. So might Satan, cast from the empyrean, have prowled the sad variety of hell, or the Emperor Napoleon have perambulated bits and pieces of the forty-seven square miles of St Helena.

The various tradesmen presently employed in the house were clearly from reputable firms, accustomed to labour for the better ease and amenity of the gentry. Recognizing in Povey the lord of the manor, they comported themselves respectfully as he roamed around. This was soothing. So, in a way, was the lavishness of what was being done. The bills would be enormous, and Povey actually took a sardonic satisfaction in the thought that, if a sudden crash did come, none of them was likely to be paid. He was startled only when he reached the drawing-room, which was the principal apartment in the house. It was being decorated as if in the expectation that he would here entertain the remaining Crowned Heads of Europe or of the globe. Butter – it was all, of course, of Butter’s planning – had really gone to town. (The phrase momentarily vexed Povey, who had been pretty well told, after yesterday’s expedition, that he was not himself going to be allowed to go to town again.)

From floor to ceiling, there was clearly to be a grand and unifying design, and it was being achieved under the superintendence of a female, who was even now marching round the room in a commanding way. Povey saw at once that she was of what might be called the
cordon bleu
type. Her fees would be unblushingly on the scale of a top surgeon’s or portrait painter’s. And she would expect to be treated as one treats an artist or architect of the first eminence. Povey, a polite man, an English gentleman of the old school, realized that it was very improper in him not even to know her name.

This difficulty was in his head when the female turned to him with a brisk good morning. Of course
she
knew who
he
was. And suddenly a shocking thing happened. She was regarding him mischievously and in a manner to be characterized as wholly unprofessional. It was instantly and abundantly clear that she expected to be recognized.

It was a difficult situation, and by no means unprecedented. Here, in fact, was the recurrent crisis, the ever-threatening moment of truth. Povey understood this at once. What it took further seconds for him to grasp was the character of the relationship which this person had undoubtedly enjoyed with his brother. Her charms were mature, but they were still staggering. It was not mere dismay that was making Arthur Povey’s head swim.

‘Charles, darling, I could hardly wait. It was a most marvellous surprise!’

‘Yes,’ Povey said feebly. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Of course, I’d never been to Brockholes, and I don’t think you ever mentioned it. So when that nice man told me your name, and how you wanted me to accept the commission, I was struck all of a heap. I’d felt, you know, that you weren’t terribly interested in me any longer. After all, it’s been years and years.’

‘So it has. One does lose touch. I’ve travelled a good deal, you know. And business has been very absorbing.’

‘It has been flourishing, it seems.’ The female glanced round the splendours she was being required to summon into being. ‘You’ve been soaring, Charles. And how wonderful to be back in your old home! Mr Bread has explained it all to me.’

‘Not quite all, I expect. And you seem to have been doing rather well in your own profession yourself.’ He was about to add, ‘If it
is
your profession,’ but judged that the joke might not be well received. Here, certainly, was one of those top tarts with accounts of whom Charles had been accustomed to torment him. And he wasn’t quite sure of the conversational tone which gentlemen adopt to such ladies when according them protection. His own experience was limited. He’d had his day, of course; he’d had quite a lot of days during the all too brief period in which he had believed his imposture so secure that he could live a life of carefree indulgence in the hot spots of Europe. But he hadn’t quite the touch – if that was the word – of a man long habituated to that purple. Still, it shouldn’t be difficult to hit the right note. The urgent difficulty was that he hadn’t a notion what to call the woman. He looked wildly round as if for inspiration. Perhaps ‘darling’ would do once or twice – he was holding it in reserve – but if he couldn’t put a real name to her pretty soon he was sunk. Or was he? Perhaps she would merely conclude that he recognized her only as one of such a large crowd of houris whose favours he had enjoyed that her name simply wasn’t lodged in his head. In that case, she might be offended, change her line, fall back on being merely a professional adviser. That, indeed, would be the safest way to try to play it.

He became aware that he oughtn’t to be looking round at all; that it was ungallant to do other than let his gaze be riveted by the charms immediately before him. Being a man of address, he coped with this bad behaviour at once.

‘It’s perfectly gorgeous,’ he said, with a wave at the transformed drawing-room. ‘But not nearly as gorgeous as you, my darling.’

These were fateful words; they represented a kind of burning of boats. The woman
was
a houri, and Povey’s impulse to play safe had deserted him. He had been, after all, on what might coarsely be called sexual short-commons for some time. And now he noticed that they were standing close to a writing table at which it appeared this dangerous charmer had set up her working quarters. It was covered with a litter of papers and sketches.

‘Are those your designs?’ he asked with a great appearance of eagerness. ‘May I look at them?’

‘Of course, Charles darling. They’re all yours, aren’t they?’

At this, Povey went up to the table, and immediately saw that his genius had been vindicated. There was, among the rest of the stuff, a little pile of writing paper, and it bore a printed letterhead. He squinted at this and read:

‘And is that going to be the carpet?’ Povey pointed more or less at random at one drawing. ‘I can hardly wait to see it. Your taste is as marvellous as ever, Perpetua my love.’

‘Perpetua?’ Miss (or Mrs) Porter pouted. ‘Isn’t that rather formal, Charles? You always called me Pops.’

‘Pops, of course.’ Povey judged this a revolting pet name for any woman, but managed to articulate it fondly and (what wasn’t easy) on a kind of amorous dying fall.

‘Sweet, sweet Charles – it’s fabulous to have found you again.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? Me to have found you, I mean.’ There being no workmen close by, Povey took Pops’ hand familiarly and gave it a little squeeze. There had come to him the amazing fact that this stunning woman had not only been infatuated with Charles at some unknown past time; she was infatuated with the person she supposed to be Charles now.
Agnosco
– she might have been saying with poor old Dido or whoever –
veteris vestigia flammae
. He had only to put out his hand again – in a more definitive manner, this time – and the thing was in the bag. ‘Pops, darling,’ he said, ‘it’s a lovely morning. Shall we go out into the park?’

‘Yes, Charles my sweet, do let’s. And we can have a splendid chat about old times.’

‘So we can.’ Povey’s enthusiasm was not immediate. ‘You can tell me all about yourself,’ he added. ‘Everything you’ve been doing all this time. I’d love to hear it.’

‘So you shall. And you’ll tell me everything too. I’ve ever so many things to ask you.’

‘Or perhaps all that can keep, Pops darling. There are times – aren’t there ? – when deeds are sweeter than words.’

‘Darling, that’s just the kind of thing you used to say.’

‘Well, then – now for the kind of thing I used to do.’

Thus, with incredible rashness, the commonly so wary Arthur Povey – fondly overcome with female charm.

He was to wonder afterwards whether she had known all the time; whether she hadn’t in the very moment of first glimpsing him in the drawing-room seen who he wasn’t and who he must be. If this were so, she was a thoroughly malicious as well as vicious woman, since she had hoarded her knowledge in order to deploy it in a strikingly wounding way. For she had simply sat up on the grass (he had found a sunny but secluded little glade), stretched, yawned, smoothed her hair with the prescriptive automatic hand, and pronounced lazily certain ingeniously lacerating words.