The Power of the Dead (30 page)

“You have met Phillip Maddison, haven’t you?” said Anders. “If not, may I introduce him?”

“Piers Tofield brought him to see us,” she smiled. “I rather hoped I’d find Piers and Phillip here together when I arrived.”

Anders had a puzzled look on his face. “Where’s Tony? Didn’t you come with your husband, Virginia?”

“I rather fancy he’s looking for Piers,” she said, with another wide smile. “Do be an angel and get me some brandy.”

Phillip, having successfully dodged Anders, who had obviously had too much whisky to drink, made his way to Mrs. Cruft.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” she said, touching his arm with a hand like a delicate small flipper with crimson claws. “I
do
apologise for not being able to come here before. Poor you. Piers was too, too naughty to leave you alone.” She appealed to him with innocent round eyes. “Phillip—may I call you that?—Phillip, you
are
Piers’ best friend, aren’t you? He worships you. I
must
see him. I cannot explain just now—you
do
understand
, don’t you? But in case I don’t see Piers before you leave, be an angel and ask him to be sure to telephone me tonight. I’m staying with Mama.”

“He knows the address?”

“Oh yes. You
are
an angel, really you are.”

Anders came back with two tumblers of schnapps. “It’s all I could get, Virginia. Now I’d like to introduce you to Phillip Maddison. He’s won the—— No! don’t stop me, Phillip! Why not tell Virginia your news?”

“Anders is joking, don’t heed what he says.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Anders, his brow furrowed, his eyes unhappy. He swallowed half his tumbler of spirit. “Why not let everyone know the good news? No, don’t move away.” He held Phillip’s arm and in a louder voice cried, “Tell Virginia, Phillip! Tell everyone! Let them know who’s here!”

“No-one is really interested in my horses,” said Phillip to Virginia. He went on, as easily as he could, “Well, I think I’ll go and see what’s happened to Archie Plugge.”

But Anders the Norseman, the single-minded Viking, was not to be put off by the delaying tactics of a Celt.

“I really mean it, Phillip. I’m your friend, don’t you know it? I’m
honestly
glad to know that you have won——”

“But my horse only won a local flat race for hacks, Anders.”

“Tell Virginia——”

“At the Grand National,” said Phillip to Virginia, as he tried to raise and lower his eyebrows in rapid succession, to convey a warning, “Staenyzer Kabaret, the colt from my Belgian stud, you know, may not be able to carry the weight of Captain Bill Kidd. Now there’s a man, Anders. Bill Kidd! Can’t you persuade him to write his memoirs?”

“Do you breed ’chasers, or for the flats?” asked Virginia, with
a brilliantly simulated interest in what appeared to be an entirely bogus conversation.

“No, he doesn’t, Virginia! It’s
not
a horse,” cried Anders, in distress. He poured the other tumbler of clear schnapps down his throat. “It’s
not
a horse. It’s an otter.”

Phillip said, “Anders, will you kindly be quiet.”

People around were looking at them.

“Tell Virginia, Phillip!”

Anders, who now had the expression of a man about to sink for the third time, after appealing in vain for a life-belt, cried, “Why not tell them, Phillip?”

“Virginia, please don’t listen.”

“But
why
not, Phillip?” came the agonised cry.

“Anders!
It
—
is
—
a
—
secret
.”

“But why
let
it be a secret, Phillip? Tell Virginia. Tell
everyone
!”

“Don’t believe anything he says, Virginia.”

“I can’t hear a word in this din,” she smiled. “As soon as I can get my skirt free—oh, thank you
so
much!” to a man who, with many apologies, had found himself to be standing on her tail. “Now I must powder my nose. Phillip, you won’t forget to tell Piers, will you?”

With a cheesy smile below unhappy eyes the brave, small
mermaid
moved away, dreaming of her new element.

“Phillip,” cried Anders, gripping his arm. “Tell them!”

“Please do not hold my arm.”

“For God’s sake don’t misunderstand me, Phillip!”

“I don’t misunderstand you. Will you please not hold my arm?”

His momentary anger induced a greater sense of being
misunderstood
; and since by now a dozen or more faces were looking their way he became alarmed lest Anders give away Miss Arden’s secret, and struck Anders’ forearm a blow with his open hand. The finger-clutch broke, he moved away; but Anders pressed after him, begging him to believe it was only RIGHT that people should know who he was and what he had done.

He pushed on through the crowd, apologising to one person while thrusting past another; but Anders pressed after him. Disaster seemed imminent, for the way was closed by several of Anders’ friends belonging to the Barbarian Club. They stood together to prevent what they considered might easily become a
brawl. One of them was a painter with a beard grown to hide the scars of a machine-gun bullet which had gone through his cheek.

“Why not be reasonable?” he said. “I am a friend of Anders. Now let us keep calm. Why don’t you want to hear what he has to say to you?”

“If you are his friend, will you ask him to forget about me? I’m afraid that I can’t explain.”

“But that is being rather one-sided, isn’t it? Surely Anders is owed the explanation for which he has asked repeatedly?”

The painter’s wife then tried to explain. She was a novelist, and Anders was her agent.

“After all, you must admit that you are making Anders most unhappy, and indeed, spoiling the party for him, not to mention the enjoyment of others. Won’t you make friends, whatever the rights or wrongs of it, and shake hands?”

“Come here, Anders,” said the painter. “And shake hands.”

Anders held up a hand as though to make an announcement. He stared straight ahead, and then slid down upon the floor and lay still.

Channerson moved forward to inspect the only casualty so far at his party which included, he considered, a hundred uninvited people among the three hundred present. He called for help. Phillip, Plugge, and two other men, each grasping leg or arm, bore the body to the door. They waited while a taxicab drew up. Out of it stepped Piers.

“I’ve been looking for you, Phillip. You’re not going? I’m most awfully sorry——”

“I understand, Piers. Do forgive me a moment. I must make sure that Anders’ head isn’t bent too sharply forward. Help me to put him on the floor, where he can’t get any lower. Virginia’s inside looking for you. I think I’d better take Anders to the Barbarian Club.”

“Pickled?” asked the driver.

“He tried to make a speech.”

Piers said, “Would you mind holding the cab? I won’t be a moment.”

“Well,” said the amiable voice of Plugge, “I wonder what it was the poor chap was trying to say?”

“He was, like all prophets, a little before his time, Archie.”

Piers returned with Virginia now looking extremely happy.

“D’you mind if we come with you, Phil? It’s rather urgent.
Do you really want to leave now? If not, I can drop your friend at the Barbarian Club.”

“I think I’d better say how d’you do to Channerson.”

Piers gave him the latchkey. “It’s awfully good of you. Do help yourself to anything you want—you’ll find pyjamas in the drawer, drinks on the sideboard. I’ll see you later.”

Standing side by side, Phillip and Archie watched the taxi turning into Haverstock Hill.

“My dear Phil, it looks as though Piers is running off with Virginia. Oh dear. You see, it was
I
who introduced them to one another.”

They went inside. As they inspected the débris of the buffet he said, “Have you had any dinner? I haven’t.” He salvaged the last remaining sandwich, and having blown off cigarette ash, opened it and saw a thin layer of potted meat within.

“I had some eggs and bacon before I came here.”

“Oh, don’t torture me.”

Archie gulped down the sandwich, then continued his hunt round the table strewn with ashtrays, empty plates and glasses. There were some odd cheese-straws, and a squashed mince-pie.

“Well, I must go back to my horrible room in Old Compton Street, I suppose. I shall have a good dinner next Friday, which is pay day. What it is to be in Fleet Street and earning only four pounds a week, and thirty bob for my room. And dinner every Friday with Zorinda. I think I’ll call on her tonight, and risk finding her with another boy-friend. Usually she’s not at home to me on Monday. Not that I look forward greatly to Friday. I suppose one might call it one’s social duty.”

Having scooped up some crumbs of cake, an idea seemed to strike him. “I wonder if you’d like to meet Zorinda?” he asked, hopefully. “She keeps that hat shop at the Oxford Street end of Bond Street.”

“I must go back fairly soon, thanks all the same.”

“Well, I have so enjoyed seeing you, my dear Phil. We must meet again at Rookhurst, if not before. I’m quite a good cook—you know—plain, wholesome fare, should you ever want a
house-parlourman
who isn’t above turning his hand to anything.”

Felicity Ancroft was leaving, led by a small elderly man. She kept her eyes lowered, Phillip noticed, as she went towards
Channerson
, whose laughter was now coming almost continuously from the centre of a group of people. When the couple had gone, the painter’s unlaughing eyes were turned on him as he approached.

“My name is Maddison.”

“So you told me,” replied the painter, with an air of ironic courtesy. “I have been wondering if you had perhaps mistaken our humble abode for an annexe to the Haverstock Arms next door? You didn’t tell me you were a friend of Anders Norse. I thought you said that you were with the Crufts.”

The young woman with a round smiling face came forward and took Phillip’s hand. “I’m Dikkon’s wife,” she smiled. “Virginia has been telling me
all
about your lovely horses.
Do
come and tell me more about them. How good of you to come all the way from Belgium to our little party. Won’t you stay and have some eggs and bacon and meet some friends of ours?”

She was charming with her joyous Saxon face, her warmth, her pleasure in being alive. She held his hand for a few moments and said, “I’d love a glass of champagne. And do get one for yourself as well.”

They drank to one another. Channerson was looking at him gravely. “Who, or what, is Plugge, can you tell me?”

“He’s a friend of the Crufts.”

“He has such charming manners, Dikkon.”

“He needs them,” replied the painter, to his wife.

“Your husband’s war pictures have the truth in them, Mrs. Channerson. They are beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” said Channerson. “What is beauty?”

“Compassion. All beauty is truth, and all truth is compassionate. Few know that, fewer still can express it. You can, and do.”

“Ah!” said Channerson, gravely. “But the problem remains, how to put paint on paint.”

As Phillip was leaving, a man with black hair plastered on each side of his forehead like jackdaw’s wings went up to him and said, “Have you by any chance a studio floor I could sleep on tonight? I was wondering if you would perhaps be feeling somewhat lonely after your boy friend left you so unhappily.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t live in London. I’m a farmer, from the West Country.”

“Fortunate man. You don’t mind my asking?”

“Not in the least. I’ve spent hundreds of hours sleeping on billet floors in my time, and only wish I could fix you up.”

*

Stars shone above the diminished tawny glow of London as he walked down the hill. He passed the Black Cat Cigarette factory
and came to the Charing Cross Road. In streets off Piccadilly pale wastrel figures hovered in doorways. Poor darlings, he thought, still elevated by the champagne in his blood, as he entered Blue Ball Yard.

Which was his bedroom? The same one as last time? He opened the bedroom door; snores came forth. He closed the door, and composed himself on a settee. He was still awake when Piers came in.

“I’m afraid it wasn’t possible to explain at the party. Have a drink?”

“I’d like some soda-water.”

“Do help yourself.”

Piers lit the gas fire. “Virginia likes you.”

“I like her. She thinks with her head, and not with her feelings.”

“I hope you can stay for a few days, I’d like you to meet her again. Tony walked out tonight. He said it was no good remaining with a wife mooning about the place thinking of someone else.”

Phillip said nothing.

Piers went on, “Would it be asking too much if I came and talked to you sometime at Rookhurst? In my Aston I can get down in a couple of hours or so. I suppose it’s asking rather a lot, after the way I’ve behaved tonight. I’ve no excuse of course, but it has been rather upsetting for Virginia.”

“Do come, anytime, Piers. And bring Virginia if she’d care to stay.”

“What about Lucy?”

“I’m sure she’d welcome you both.”

“Most generous of you. Must you go back tomorrow?”

“Yes, but I’ll be up next week, for the Grasmere Award. I hope it doesn’t get to the papers prematurely. What sort of a girl is Felicity Ancroft? She must have guessed, from what Anders hinted.”

“She does a thing for the Children’s Hour on Tuesdays. I’ll warn her.”

“Thanks.”

“You found your bedroom?” Piers threw a dressing gown in his direction. “You go first into the bathroom, will you?”

“I rather fancy someone’s in my bedroom.”

“Plugge, most likely. One never knows when or where he’ll turn up. I suppose he heard of the Channerson’s party from
someone
. Have my bed. I’ll sleep here. You’ve had too many rough
nights during the war, and deserve all the beds you can get. Sorry I can’t supply a girl this time, but when you come again I’ll ring up Felicity if you like. She’d be only too glad of the chance, I expect.”

*

In the morning Plugge said, “I say, I’m most frightfully sorry, old boy, but I’ve no idea how I got into your bed last night. I went to the Game Pie, and had drinks with your late comrade in arms, Bill Kidd. I think I must have passed out afterwards.”