The Last Houseparty (17 page)

“That's the old nursery, sir. I expect Mrs Dubigny's daughter sleeps with a night-light. She's rather a nervy k-kid.”

“That would explain it. The light, you see, adds a subtle touch, by its contrast with the blaze from the morning room. At first I thought it was a trick of moonlight, reflected by the glass. But then I began to perceive a figure against the light, merely a silhouette, but female from the outline of the hair. She has been back three times, looking out at us enjoying ourselves below—the princess secluded in her supposed madness while the court revels and the councillors plot her dynastic marriage to some cold tyrant, eh? No, I decided she was merely one of the servants. Look, she is there now.”

“The racket must make it difficult to sleep.”

“As you no doubt remember?”

“This sort of thing didn't happen in Aunt C-Clara's day.”

“I never knew her. She led poor Snailwood a dog's life, I am told. No wonder he is such an oddity. I warned Zena she might find him a handful.”

“You knew her before they … ? I thought he … ?”

Sir Charles's laugh, a sound in any case rare with him, had a raucous edge which indicated that he might be mainly responsible for the decanter being less than half full. If so it was the only sign. His speech was precise and fluent.

“You thought Snailwood had found a Balkan adventuress, unaided. In that she was married to a Balkan adventurer for a few months she has a claim by marriage to that title. In fact she is the daughter of a Norwich grain merchant.”

“No!”

The vehemence of Vincent's response stimulated Sir Charles to further laughter, this time with an edge of malice in it. His right hand rose to caress the great blotch on his cheek, though as usual he had seated himself so that that side of his face was in shadow.

“I began my political career, soon after the Boer War, in Norwich,” he said. “Zena's father was one of my worthiest supporters. She was a delicious child—yes, quite delectable … It may have been my friendship with the family that gave her her rather absurd political ambitions. Her first idea, of course, was that she would become a queen. Her view of the world was, and still is, to a great extent moulded by the novels available in the Boots lending library—volumes in which, statistically, the highest proportion of romantically accessible royalty is centred on south-eastern Europe. After the war—more for my own peace and quiet than anything—I found her a job in one of our embassies. The marriage to Pliakin followed as night follows day. I do believe that his claim to nobility was not entirely fraudulent.”

“But we all though …”

“It is entirely untrue that she had anything to do with his death.”

“I never …”

“A fall in a horse race. Quite impossible to pre-arrange, however convenient to Zena. I had careful enquiries made. I had, you see, already introduced her to Snailwood so I felt a certain responsibility.”

“Guh … guh … guh …”

“Though not,” said Sir Charles, having watched Vincent struggle with the consonant, “envisaging an outcome such as this.”

Broker of nations, he waved his cigar in the general direction of the “superduperdo”.

“Even so, a certain responsibility, as I say, remains,” he went on. “Snailwood has made his bed and he must lie on it, but you and your cousin Harry have suffered the result without choice. It is that that I wish to talk to you about.”

Vincent drew a deep breath but said nothing. His effort to control his agitation resulted in a stiffening of spine and face muscles, as though he had been on parade back in cadet days and undergoing a bollocking from the CSM. There was nothing to show that he had noticed the interview was now assumed to be taking place at Sir Charles's insistence, whereas Harry had implied otherwise.

“I have long been impressed by your cousin,” said Sir Charles. “People have very different innate gifts, which often have little connection with their more general abilities. To take an obvious example, there is a type of man who appears to lack either intelligence or imagination and to be endowed with nothing beside a few minor social graces, who yet has an almost visceral appreciation of money matters. The same is true of politics, but among us the gift is harder to recognise because of the larger number of men who would like to believe they possess it, and who may indeed make a considerable career for themselves by means of other talents. Baldwin, for instance, had the gift to a high degree. Eden almost entirely lacks it. Attlee has it, Cripps has not. It is a matter neither of principles nor of intelligence, but, as I was saying only this morning, of feel for the grain of the timber one must cut. I believe Harry to be quite well endowed with it.”

“He's published some very political books, sir.”

“So have others. I read them all, of course, and review some. I am impressed by Throckmorton's list because it shows unusual appreciation of what is going to be the key issue by the time a book is published, and this I understand to be largely Harry's doing—Throckmorton himself is quite out of date and Drining only interested in the higher realms of fiction. But let us narrow the subject further. Harry has more than once suggested that he would like to enter Parliament. I believe at least one chance has been given him, but he turned it down. Eh?”

“Throckmorton turned it down, sir. He said it would take up too much of Harry's time. Harry's not g-got much money of his own.”

“That is always a problem. I fail to understand why Snailwood hasn't made him a sensible allowance, but Zena appears to think it is out of the question. Forgive me for trespassing on delicate family ground, but there are certain matters on which I do not regard Zena as a reliable witness. Is it known which of you two Snailwood regards as his heir?”

“No, sir.”

“And you and your cousin have not even any opinions on the matter? I find that hard to credit.”

“We made up our minds, sir, ages ago. My uncle is g-going to live to ninety. He'll change his mind every six months. There's no point in letting it mess other things up for us.”

“A very sound arrangement. Zena, I believe, favours Harry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And her efforts to make Snailwood give him an allowance can be read, particularly by Snailwood himself, as an attempt to force a declaration that Harry is the heir?”

“I didn't know it had g-got that far, sir.”

“And you would rather not talk about it in any case? Very well. I appreciate your being so open with me.”

“Harry asked me.”

“Of course. Now, Throckmorton is due to retire some time soon, it is said?”

“He's been talking about it for ages, according to Harry.”

“And he will go on talking about it for ages. Your cousin hopes that when Throckmorton retires Drining will take over and will prove more amenable to the idea of Harry entering Parliament. At the same time Harry will have the political list pretty well to himself, and that is worth waiting for. So it sounds reasonable to stay on, but for one thing. It won't wash. Throckmorton will not retire. I have, I dare say you know, very good sources of information in many fields, and I know for a fact that Throckmorton detests Drining. He will remain in office to spite him, just as Gladstone remained to spite Joe Chamberlain.”

“Are you sure, sir? Harry says …”

“Harry is wrong. He will have to get another job.”

“It isn't easy.”

“Certainly there are obstacles to his approaching some other publisher and saying, ‘Please pay me a salary so that I can afford to have a political career.'”

“He's tried that, sir. Not like that, of c-course, but …”

“Then, since there is no more sense in planning on Throckmorton's eventual retirement than there is on your uncle's eventual demise, the solution is for Harry to leave and set up on his own.”

“He'd love to do that. He's full of ideas. We talk about it a lot. But he c-can't persuade my uncle to put up the c-capital. I've g-got a bit, but nothing like enough.”

“There we come to it. The capital. That is where I believe I can help. You are aware that with Baldwin's retirement a number of seats became vacant following the elevation of certain of his cronies to the peerage in the resignation honours? The candidates for the by-elections have already been chosen, but two days ago I heard of a constituency in which the Conservative candidate proved, at the last minute, unsuitable. A replacement must be found before next Wednesday. As an inducement to attract a man of high calibre at such short notice, a senior member of the Conservative Association in the constituency tells me that he would put up the capital to found a small business, such as a publishing firm. Do you follow me?”

“That would be … You've talked to Harry about this, sir?”

“Of course. Let me finish. There are certain conditions.”

“I see.”

“It is because of the conditions that Harry suggested I should talk to you. To make no bones about it, I was reluctant to do so.”

“We take each other's advice a g-good deal, about some things.”

“There are certain tribes in which a man, on reaching the age where he can become a hunter, goes out alone into the forest and chooses a particular rock or tree into which he puts his soul, so that he becomes immune to the magical assaults of enemies.”

Sir Charles's theatrically penetrating glance was now beamed straight at Vincent, who shrugged uneasily.

“Very well,” said Sir Charles. “At the start of such a venture I can appreciate your cousin wanting your advice and, I imagine, approval. But we cannot have him running to you every time there is a dilemma of conscience within my group. For that, effectively, is the condition on which the capital will be raised. A fair degree of latitude would of course be tolerable, but fundamentally the candidate chosen would, if elected—and it is a very safe seat—have to be prepared to vote and act with my group.”

During the whole conversation Vincent had only relaxed his mien of undergoing a tricky
viva voce
when the possibility of Harry setting up on his own had been raised. Now, obviously, he found it difficult to keep a tone of distrust, even dislike, out of his voice.

“But that might mean …” he began.

“You think we are pro-German?”

“I suppose so.”

“We are not pro-German,” said Sir Charles with soft patience. “We are certainly not pro-Nazi. I personally detest much that National Socialism announces as its aims, and much more of the means by which it is attempting to achieve those aims. I am, most profoundly, a patriot. I would dare anything and suffer anything if it meant that the honour and power of our empire should remain undiminished. But I am also a realist. I know how weakened our apparently formidable structure has been allowed to become. I know that a war against Germany, even one that ended in complete victory, would leave us so enfeebled that within a generation we would find ourselves reduced to the stature of a minor Scandinavian nation. And victory is far from certain. Thanks to the intransigence of the French, Herr Hitler will certainly come to an understanding with Russia before he confronts the Entente. And then what trust have you in the French as allies? If we are weakened, they are utterly debilitated. They shelter behind the Maginot Line and think themselves safe, but have they the will to defend their position? They have not. Patriotism, for me and my friends, consists in having the courage to confront considerations such as this, and to see clearly that there must be no war.”

“I don't see how we c-can make friends with a man like Herr Hitler.”

“I do not propose to make friends. I propose simply not to make enemies. The interests of Germany are in many aspects our interests. It is, for instance, in our interest that the Jewish question should be solved. There can be no stability in the world while this nation exists that has no national home, and so has to live like a parasite along the arteries of host nations. If the question is not solved in the manner we propose, then eventually more dreadful ways will be found.”

“But suppose that's sorted out, and this business with Czechoslovakia, and so on, there'll be something else, won't there, and then something else? Professor Blech says war is inevitable. I know Harry thinks so too. A lot of us are half looking forward to it.”

“Then you are half deluded. ‘To turn like swimmers into cleanness leaping,' is that it? Rupert Brooke was lucky to die as he did before he could see, as I saw, the vileness of that cleanness. And this war will be worse. You are a soldier, Vincent. They have taught you the effects of a gas attack on troops, no doubt. Have they said anything to you about the effects of gas on a civilian population?”

“That's not really our business, sir.”

“It is our business, every man jack of us. Your mother lives just behind Harrods, I seem to remember?”

Sir Charles, as a friend of the family, may well have been aware of the touchiness of Vincent's relationship with his mother—the cause, according to Zena at least, of his stammer—but he probably only brought her into the argument to deploy the rhetorician's trick of particularising the general. Vincent nodded, perhaps a little sullenly, but did not otherwise react.

“That is precisely where the gas canisters would fall,” said Sir Charles. “The Luftwaffe would of course wait for a prevailing south-west wind. No doubt your mother would be out here, in comparative safety, before the attack began. I take her only as an example. There are many, many soldiers whose mothers and wives and children have no such bolt-hole.”

“I meant …”

“You meant that preparations against such an attack are the concern of the civilian authorities, and you take it for granted that they will be effective. It is true that we have a Minister for the Co-ordination of Defence in the new Cabinet—the egregious Inskip. Gas masks are being issued, effective against types of gas developed twenty years ago. But reliable informants inside Germany tell me that new gases have been manufactured which will penetrate the filters of these gas masks, and others which will not even need to be breathed, because they are fatal on mere contact with human skin. So, Vincent, we are faced with these alternatives. Either we must develop counter-measures of the same horror, and then persuade Herr Hitler that we would not hesitate to use them, or else we must arrange matters so that the Luftwaffe does not come. Can you believe, even had we time to catch up in this hellish race, that a nation such as ours, with its sentimental attachment to notions of human decency and the fellowship of man, could be persuaded to embark on the former course? Would you yourself not draw the line before you reached that point?”