Spinsters in Jeopardy (5 page)

His disciple whispered: “Oh, no! No, indeed! No,” and started to breathe deeply, stopping one nostril with a finger and expelling her breath with a hissing sound. Troy began to wonder if Miss Locke was, perhaps, a little mad.

Oberon had shifted his gaze from Troy. His eyes were still very wide open and quite without expression. He had seen the sleeping Ricky.

It was with the greatest difficulty that Troy gave her movement towards Ricky a semblance of casualness. Her instinct, she afterwards told Alleyn, was entirely that of a mother cat. She leaned over her small son and made a pretence of adjusting the cushion behind him. She heard Oberon say: “A beautiful child,” and thought that no matter how odd it might look, she would stand between Ricky and his eyes until something else diverted their gaze. But Ricky himself stirred a little, flinging out his arm. She moved him over with his face away from Oberon. He murmured: “Mummy?” and she answered: “Yes,” and kept her hand on him until he had fallen back into sleep.”

She turned and looked past the ridiculous back of the deep-breathing disciple to the figure seated in the glare of the sun, and, being a painter, she recognized, in the midst of her alarm, a remarkable subject. At the same time it seemed to her that Oberon and she acknowledged each other as enemies.

This engagement, if it was one, was broken off by the appearance of two more of Mr. Oberon’s guests: a tall girl and a lame young man who were introduced as Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Both names were familiar to Troy, the girl’s as that of a regular sacrifice on the altars of the glossy weeklies, and the man’s as that of the reputably wildish son of a famous brewer who was also an indefatigable patron of the fine arts. To Troy their comparative normality was as a freshening breeze and she was ready to overlook the shadows under their eyes and their air of unease. They greeted her politely, lowered their voices when they saw Ricky and sat together on one seat, screening him from Mr. Oberon. Troy returned to her former place.

Mr. Oberon was talking. It seemed that he had bought a book in Paris, a newly discovered manuscript, one of those assembled by Roger de Gaignières. Troy knew that he must have paid a fabulous sum for it and, in spite of herself, listened eagerly to a description of the illuminations. He went on to speak of other works: of the calendar of Charles d’Angoulême, of Indian art, and finally of the moderns — Rouault, Picasso and André Derain. “But, of course, André is not a modern. He derives quite blatantly from Rubens. Ask Carbury, when he comes, if I am not right.”

Troy’s nerves jumped. Could he mean Carbury Glande, a painter whom she knew perfectly well and who would certainly, if he appeared, greet her with feverish effusiveness? Mr. Oberon no longer looked at her or at anyone in particular, yet she had the feeling that he talked at her and he was talking very well. Yes, here was a description of one of Glande’s works. “He painted it yesterday from the Saracens’ Watchtower: the favourite interplay of lemon and lacquer-red with a single note of magenta, and everything arranged about a central point. The esoteric significance was eloquent and the whole thing quite beautiful.” It was undoubtedly Carbury Glande. Surely, surely, the operation must be over and if so, why didn’t Alleyn come and take them away? She tried to remember if Carbury Glande knew she was married to a policeman.

Ginny Taylor said: “I wish I knew about Carbury. I can’t get anything from his works. I can only say awful Philistinish things such as they look as if they were too easy to do.” She glanced in a friendly manner at Troy.

“Do
you
know about modern art?” she asked.

“I’m always ready to learn,” Troy hedged with a dexterity born of fright.

“I shall never learn however much I try,” sighed Ginny Taylor and suddenly yawned.

The jaws of everyone except Mr. Oberon quivered responsively.

“Lord, I’m sorry,” said Ginny, and for some unaccountable reason looked frightened. Robin Herrington touched her hand with the tip of his fingers. “I wonder why they’re so infectious,” he said. “Sneezes, coughs and yawns. Yawns worst of all. To read about them’s enough to set one going.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Oberon suggested, “it’s another piece of evidence, if a homely one, that separateness is an illusion. Our bodies as well as our souls have reflex actions.” And while Troy was still wondering what on earth this might mean his Sati gave a little yelp of agreement.

“True! True!” she cried. She dived, stretched out with her right arm and grasped her toes. At the same time she wound her left arm behind her head and seized her right ear. Having achieved this unlikely posture, she gazed devotedly upon Mr. Oberon. “Is it all right, dearest Ra,” she asked, “for me to press quietly on with my Prana and Pranayama?”

“It is well at all times, dear Sati, if the spirit also is attuned.”

Troy couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Was it possible that they found nothing to marvel at in these antics? Ginny was looking doubtfully at Sati, and young Herrington was looking at Ginny as if, Troy thought with relief, he invited her to be amused with him.

“Ginny?” Mr. Oberon said quietly.

The beginning of a smile died on Ginny’s lips. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Yes, Ra?”

“Have you formed a design for today?”

“No. At least… this afternoon…”

“I thought, if it suited general arrangements,” Robin Herrington said, “that I might ask Ginny to come into Douceville this afternoon. I want her to tell me what colour I should have for new awnings on the after-deck.”

But Ginny had got up and walked past Troy to Mr. Oberon. She stood before him white-faced with the dark marks showing under her eyes.

“Are you going, then, to Douceville?” he asked. “You look a little pale, my child. We were so late with our gaieties last night. Should you rest this afternoon?”

He was looking at her as he had looked at Troy.

“I think perhaps I should,” she said in a flat voice.

“I, too. The colour of the awnings can wait until the colour of the cheeks is restored. Perhaps Annabella would enjoy a drive to Douceville. Annabella Wells,” he explained to Troy, “is with us. Her latest picture is completed and she is to make a film for Durant Frères in the spring.”

Troy was not much interested in the presence of a notoriously erratic if brilliant actress. She had been watching young Herrington, whose brows were drawn together in a scowl. He got up and stood behind Ginny, looking at Oberon over the top of her head. His hands closed and he thrust them into his pockets.

“I thought a drive might be a good idea for Ginny,” he said.

But Ginny had sunk down on the end of the li-low at Mr. Oberon’s feet. She settled herself there quietly, with an air of obedience. Mr Oberon said to Troy: “Robin has a most wonderful yacht. You must ask him to show it to you.” He put his hand on Ginny’s head.

“I should be delighted,” said Robin and sounded furious. He had turned aside and now added in a loud voice: “Why not this afternoon? I still think Ginny should come to Douceville.”

Troy knew that something had happened that was unusual between Mr. Oberon and his guests and that Robin Herrington was frightened as well as angry. She wanted to give him courage. Her heart thumped against her ribs.

In the dead silence they all heard someone come quickly up the stone stairway. When Alleyn opened the door their heads were already turned towards him.

iii

He waited for a moment to accustom his eyes to the glare and during that moment he and the five people whose faces were turned toward him were motionless.

One grows scarcely to see one’s lifelong companions and it is more difficult to call up the face of one’s beloved than that of a mere acquaintance. Troy had never been able to make a memory-drawing of her husband. Yet, at that moment, it was as if a veil of familiarity was withdrawn and she looked at him with fresh perception.

She thought: “I’ve never been gladder to see him.”

“This is my husband,” she said.

Mr. Oberon had risen and come forward. He was five inches shorter than Alleyn. For the first time Troy thought him ridiculous as well as disgusting.

He held out his hand. “We’re so glad to meet you at last. The news is good?”

“Dr. Baradi will be able to tell you better than I,” Alleyn said. “Her condition was pretty bad. He says she will be very ill.”

“We shall all help her,” Mr. Oberon said, indicating the antic Sati, the bemused Ginny Taylor and the angry-looking Robin Herrington. “We can do so much.”

He put his hand on Alleyn’s arm and led him forward. The reek of ether accompanied them. Alleyn was introduced to the guests and offered a seat but he said: “If we may, I think perhaps I should see my wife and Ricky on their way back to Roqueville. Our driver is free now and can take them. He will come back for me. We’re expecting a rather urgent telephone call at our hotel.”

Troy, who dreaded the appearance of Carbury Glande, knew Alleyn had said “my wife” because he didn’t want Oberon to learn her name. He had an air of authority that was in itself, she thought, almost a betrayal. She got up quickly and went to Ricky.

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, “I should stay a little longer in case there’s any change in her condition. Baradi is going to telephone to St. Christophe for a nurse and, in the meantime, two of your maids will take turns sitting in the room. I’m sure, sir, that if she were able, Miss Truebody would tell you how grateful she is for your hospitality.”

“There is no need. She is with us in a very special sense. She is in safe hands. We must send a car for the nurse. There is no train until the evening.”

“I’ll go,” Robin Herrington said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Robin,” Oberon explained lightly, “has driven in the Monte Carlo rally. We must hope that the nurse has iron nerves.”

Alleyn said to Robin: “It sounds an admirable idea. Will you suggest it to Dr. Baradi?”

He went to Ricky and lifted him in his arms. Troy gave her hand to Mr. Oberon. His own wrapped itself round hers, tightened, and was suddenly withdrawn. “You must visit us again,” he said. “If you are a voyager of the spirit, and I think you are, it might interest you to come to one of our meditations.”

“Yes, do come,” urged his Sati, who had abandoned her exercises on Alleyn’s entrance. “It’s madly wonderful. You must. Where are you staying?”

“At the Royal.”

“Couldn’t be easier. No need to hire a car. The Douceville bus leaves from the corner. Every half-hour. You’ll find it perfectly convenient.”

Troy was reminded vividly of Mr. Garbel’s letters. She murmured something non-committal, said goodbye and went to the door.

“I’ll see you out,” Robin Herrington offered and took up his heavy walking stick.

As she groped down the darkened stairway she heard their voices rumbling above her. They came slowly; Alleyn because of Ricky and Herrington because of his stiff leg. The sensation of nightmare that threatened without declaring itself mounted in intensity. The stairs seemed endless, yet when she reached the door into the hall she was half-scared of opening it because Carbury Glande might be on the other side. But the hall was untenanted. She hurried through it and out to the courtyard. The iron gates had an elaborate fastening. Troy fumbled with it, dazzled by the glare of sunlight beyond. She pulled at the heavy latch, bruising her fingers. A voice behind her and at her feet said: “Do let me help you.”

Carbury Glande must have come up the stairs from beneath the courtyard. His face, on a level with her knees, peered through the interstices of the wrought-iron banister. Recognition dawned on it.

“Can it be Troy?” he exclaimed hoarsely. “But it
is!
Dear heart, how magical and how peculiar. Where
have
you sprung from? And why are you scrabbling away at doors? Has Oberon alarmed you? I may say he petrifies me. What are you up to?”

He had arrived at her level, a short gnarled man whose hair and beard were red and whose face, at the moment, was a dreadful grey. He blinked up at Troy as if he couldn’t get her into focus. He was wearing a pair of floral shorts and a magenta shirt.

“I’m not up to anything,” said Troy. “In fact, I’m scarcely here at all. We’ve brought your host a middle-aged spinster with a perforated appendix and now we’re on our way.”

“Ah, yes. I heard about the spinster. Ali Baradi woke me at cockcrow, full of professional zeal, and asked me if I’d like to thread needles and count sponges. How he dared! Are you going?”

“I must,” Troy said. “Do open this damned door for me.”

She could hear Alleyn’s and Herrington’s voice in the hall and the thump of Herrington’s stick.

Glande reached for the latch. His hand, stained round the nails with paint, was tremulous. “I am, as you can see, a wreck,” he said. “A Homeric party and only four hours sottish insensitivity in which to recover. Imagine it! There you are.”

He opened the doors and winced at the glare outside. “Oberon will be thrilled you’re here,” he said. “Did you know he bought a thing of yours at the Rond-Point show? If s in the library. ‘Boy with a Kite.’ He adores it.”

“Look here,” Troy said hurriedly, “be a good chap and don’t tell him I’m me. I’ve come here for a holiday and I’d so much rather…”

“Well, if you like. Yes, of course. Yes, I understand. And on mature consideration I fancy this menage is not entirely your cup of tea. You’re almost pathologically normal, aren’t you? Forgive me if I bolt back to my burrow, the glare is really more than I can endure. God, somebody’s coming?”

He stumbled away from the door. Alleyn, with Ricky in his arms came out of the hall followed by Robin Herrington. Glande ejaculated: “Oh, sorry!” and bolted down the stairs. Herrington scowled after him and said: “That’s our tame genius. I’ll come to the car, if I may.”

As they walked in single file down the steps and past the maker of figurines, Troy had the feeling that Robin wanted to say something to them and didn’t know how to begin. They had reached the open platform where Raoul waited by the car before he blurted out:

“I do hope you will let me drive you down, to see the yacht. Both of you, I mean. I mean…” he stopped short. Alleyn said: “That’s very nice of you. I hadn’t heard about a yacht.”