The Summer of Sir Lancelot (3 page)

The little man laughed. ‘Dear me, longer than that.‘

Sir Lancelot glared. ‘I must say, the Admiral is extremely generous in his hospitality.‘

‘But the Admiral has left.‘

‘Left?‘

‘For Madeira,‘ explained the intruder mildly. ‘He seems to think the move would benefit both his chest and his income tax. I have bought the property.‘

‘Bought it!‘

Sir Lancelot‘s face took on the expression of a well-established bulldog eyeing the new postman.

‘Yes, my business activities have become much less these days, and I wanted to pass such time as may be left to me quietly fishing. I really couldn‘t resist the property — though the Admiral drives a hard bargain, dear me, a very hard bargain indeed — when I found it included this delightful Witches‘ Pool.‘

‘This-‘ Sir Lancelot quivered to his rod-tip ‘-happens to be
my
Witches‘ Pool.‘

‘Oh, dear me, no,‘ countered Mr Chadwick calmly. ‘I agree that for many years you left the Admiral under that impression, but I have been through the deeds carefully and there can be no mistake. No mistake,‘ he repeated, flicking his fly across the river, ‘whatsoever.‘

For some moments Sir Lancelot stood with his beard moving violently, but the sound had apparently broken down.

‘I intend to consult my solicitors,‘ he managed to get out at last.

‘I should be glad for your peace of mind if you would.‘ Mr Chadwick seemed unruffled by this well-flung gauntlet. ‘Though I fear they will provide you with only the same opinion.‘

‘Damn you, man!‘ thundered the surgeon. ‘I‘ll take you to court.‘

The bird‘s eyes blinked mildly. ‘I trust you will not think me discourteous if I say the prospect fails to alarm me.‘

‘I‘ve fished this ruddy pool every summer holiday since I bought the house.‘ The flies on Sir Lancelot‘s cap danced a brisk fandango. ‘I‘ll have you know I‘m not used to being contradicted, particularly by every blasted trespasser — ‘

‘Ah, my guest of the morning,‘ Mr Chadwick interrupted, as though Sir Lancelot were some noisy but passing irritation like a wasp. ‘Dear me, what a coincidence! My visitor is in the same profession as yourself. Dr Tolly, I‘d like you to meet Dr Spratt.‘

‘It wouldn‘t be “Doctor” it would be “Mister” and anyway it‘s Sir Lancelot,‘ snapped the surgeon.

‘G-glad to meet you,‘ said Dr Tolly.

‘Why?‘ barked Sir Lancelot.

‘Young Dr Tolly has taken over Dr Ewenny‘s practice in the village,‘ Mr Chadwick explained politely. ‘He has already effected an absolutely miraculous cure of my gout.‘

Sir Lancelot glared at doctor and patient impartially. ‘You don‘t need a miracle to cure gout. You need to cut down on the port.‘

‘But I drink only hock and soda-water,‘ objected Mr Chadwick mildly. ‘Then it‘s probably the wrong diagnosis. Tolly? Tolly? I know you.‘ The meteorology of Sir Lancelot‘s thunderous brow worsened further. ‘I examined you in your surgery finals last year, didn‘t I?‘

‘That‘s... that‘s right, sir.‘

‘You were the candidate who, when I asked the cause of this sinus scar on my own forehead, answered, “It‘s your leucotomy, sir”?‘

‘I -1 was flustered, Sir Lancelot,‘ agreed Dr Tolly, turning pink.

The glance which Sir Lancelot focused on him was one of curiosity. He merely wanted to observe more closely what form this offender against the laws of Nature took. He saw a slim young man in T-shirt and jeans, garments which he had frequently described in public as fit only for the end of Blackpool pier. Furthermore, he half suspected the young pup had one of those fancy modern haircuts. He snorted. He could cheerfully have disposed of this junior fellow-practitioner for purposes of vivisection.

‘Which hospital d‘yer come from, boy?‘

‘St Agnes‘,‘ gulped Dr Tolly.

‘I might have known!‘

Sir Lancelot folded his arms decisively, the members of any other London hospital being regarded in St Swithin‘s as not only underprivileged and mentally handicapped, but probably making their own trousers as well.

‘Come,‘ interrupted Mr Chadwick, mindful of his duties as host. ‘We must proceed to our fishing lesson.‘

Dr Tolly climbed shakingly on a convenient flat rock. He had, in fact, recently been giving a good deal of thought to his reunion with Old Slasher Spratt, and the projected scene hadn‘t been on these lines at all. He nervously took Mr Chadwick‘s rod, while Sir Lancelot watched with an expression etched into the souls of countless house surgeons fumbling through their first appendicectomy.

‘It is really quite simple,‘ explained Mr Chadwick. ‘You simply flick the rod, like a whip.‘

‘Like that?‘

‘Exactly, my dear Doctor! See how your fly falls on the surface of the water? If you will permit me to say so, the rod looks remarkably natural in your hand.‘

‘And if you will permit
me
to say so,‘ commented Sir Lancelot, ‘it looks about as much use as a razor to a eunuch. Good God! Hang on, boy, hang on! Play him, you fool, play him! Let out line, let out line!‘

Dr Tolly‘s rod would have aroused the admiration of an aspen. The fisherman himself stood on one leg with his mouth open. Mr Chadwick tripped into the brambles. Sir Lancelot excitedly ploughed through the bracken firing broadsides of advice. The ownership of Witches‘ Pool and Dr Tolly‘s surgery finals fled from his mind. Had the Montagues been fishermen, in the excitement of the catch they would have forgotten even the Capulets.

‘Net, Chadwick, net!‘ snapped Sir Lancelot, as though needing the artery forceps in a hurry. ‘Go on, man, shove it under the fish‘s belly, don‘t tickle the back of his neck with it. That‘s right, boy, reel in. Now you‘ve got him safe and sound... ‘

His voice faded away. He stood on the bank in silence as the pair landed an aldermanic trout and dispatched it with blows to its shapely head.

‘I say, what a splendid specimen!‘ Mr Chadwick‘s gold-rimmed glasses flashed as he glanced round excitedly. ‘Really, Sir Lancelot, you must admit the young doctor here—‘

But Sir Lancelot had gone. He was stalking through the brambles with tears running from his eyes. Lying in state on that flat rock beside the river was undoubtedly Percival. The beastly couple had gone and killed his best friend.

‘Ye gods,‘ he muttered brokenly, ‘what is the world coming to!‘

Five minutes later he was clattering across his front hall shedding fishing tackle.

‘Maud!‘

His tears were dried in the flames of anger. He grabbed the telephone as though drawing a sword.

‘I want Evans,‘ he barked to the exchange.

‘Evans the milk or Evans the telly?‘

‘The solicitors.‘

‘Oh, Evans the law. Just a minute, love.‘

‘Evans, Evans, Evans, Evans,‘ came a sombre voice up the line, ‘and Evans.‘

‘Caradoc? Spratt here—‘

‘Oh, good morning to you, Sir Lancelot. I believe I observed you making for the river earlier. Did you have any luck?‘

‘No, I did
not
have any luck! You are to come to my house instantly.‘

‘Goodness me, man! What‘s the matter? You sound as though you‘d committed murder.‘

‘That is precisely what I hope your professional opinion will prevent.‘ Sir Lancelot slammed down the telephone. ‘Maud! Maud!‘

He stormed through the hall, making the very fish tremble in their glass cases. He strode into the garden. He came to a halt. His wife and niece were emerging from the shrubbery with a stranger.

‘Oh, Lancelot, I‘m so glad you decided to return for lunch,‘ smiled Lady Spratt. ‘This is Mr Finnimore, who‘s come all the way from London. I quite forgot to tell you about the appointment. One gets utterly amnesic embalmed here in the country,‘ she apologized to her guest.

With Mr Chadwick and Dr Tolly, Sir Lancelot felt he had witnessed sufficient unpleasant sights for one day. But apparently this was not to be. He found himself facing a pale slim young man in a silk suit and a pair of glasses with rims like bus tyres.

‘I‘m from
The Countess,‘
the young man explained, offering an apparently filleted hand.

Sir Lancelot‘s eyebrows shot up. ‘The Countess of Mull and Islay? Did her bladder a couple of years ago. If there‘re any complications see Mr Cambridge in Harley Street. I‘ve retired.‘

‘No, no,
The Countess
magazine,‘ explained Lady Spratt.

The cold front moved back on Sir Lancelot‘s brow.

‘As you know,‘ amplified the silk-suited man, ‘we run a photographic feature every issue on Famous Faces.‘ He gave a little laugh. ‘All slightly off-beat, naturally. Last week we had Cecil Fleury in his new ballet, and this week we‘ve that absolutely side-splitting comedian, Jimmy-‘

‘Thank you. I have thought it necessary to have only two photographs taken in my life. One was for my passport and the other for my obituary. I regret that I am unable to invite you to stay for lunch. Good morning.‘

‘Really, Lancelot!‘ Lady Spratt now shook like a
soufflé
on a trampoline. An orange one, too — she was pretty indignant. ‘Perhaps you don‘t realize that half London society is fighting to get into Mr Finnimore‘s viewfinder? He is quite as famous a photographer as Lord — ‘

‘If I require any photographs I shall call at Studios Williams in the village in my own good time. He does excellent studies of fish and funerals and makes no damned fuss. Has this country come to regard privacy as lightly as it regards morality?‘ he demanded loudly in general. ‘I go out this morning to discover my neighbour blatantly poaching my water, and I come home to find photographers overrunning the place like rabbits. It is altogether too much. Good morning.‘

He turned and strode back to the house. He slammed the door of his downstairs study. He sat and exchanged glances for ten minutes with another stuffed fish.

‘Evans!‘

Sir Lancelot threw open the study window as the solicitor‘s little black car came crunching hurriedly up the drive.

‘Evans, I wish you to institute proceedings instantly against this despicable scoundrel Chadwick.‘

Mr Caradoc Evans, a thin white-haired man with the air of a dyspeptic undertaker with an overdraft, approached between the flower-beds.

‘You mustn‘t talk like that, Sir Lancelot,‘ he chided, ‘or you‘ll be fighting a slander action instead. I understand Mr Chadwick is a most respected figure in the City of London.‘

‘I have not the slightest doubt of that, if he extends his total disregard for other people‘s property to his commercial activities.‘

‘He‘s Beaulieu‘s Marmalade, you know,‘ explained Mr Evans, leaning on the windowsill.

Sir Lancelot nearly vomited up his breakfast.

‘And Peregrine‘s Pickle and Cholmondeley‘s Chutney and all the other things you keep seeing advertised on the telly. Quite a little empire he‘s built up in the preserves line, so I believe. A very tough nut, too, by all accounts.‘

‘He‘s a poacher,‘ Sir Lancelot interrupted. ‘A common poacher. Look here, I‘ve fished Witches‘ Pool long enough to know every damn minnow in it by name — ‘

‘Oh, Witches‘ Pool?‘ Mr Evans managed a little smile. ‘Frankly, Sir Lancelot, it‘s always been a wonder to us down at the office how you managed to get away with it so long.‘

‘Who the hell‘s side are you on, anyway?‘ demanded Sir Lancelot, as Caesar might have put it to Brutus when the dagger went in.

‘The side of truth,‘ returned Mr Evans glancing heavenwards, as if to make sure the remark was noted in the right quarters.

‘Ye gods!‘ Sir Lancelot wiped his face with the yellow silk handkerchief. ‘Come inside. I want a drink.‘

‘Alas! I never touch a drop.‘ The solicitor was a strict teetotaller, except for the whisky he swallowed for colds, to which he was a martyr. ‘But if you want to indulge-‘

‘Perhaps you could manage just
one
study,‘ broke in the persistent tones of Mr Finnimore from the garden. After all, he had once photographed charging big game in Africa. ‘Where you are in the window will be quite delightful, I assure you.‘

There is a time when even the most steadfast martyr is liable to cave in and tell the lads with the iron bars to lay off, now he comes to think of it he was probably in the wrong all the time. Sir Lancelot gave a sigh.

‘Very well,‘ he muttered. ‘Very well.‘

‘Perhaps one leg over the windowsill?‘ invited Mr Finnimore, producing his Leica and brightening up.

‘Like that?‘ demanded the subject dully.

‘Perfect! A posture of elegant repose. If you can just hold it... Perhaps a
little
farther forward... ‘

‘Ahhhhhhhh!‘ said Sir Lancelot.

The Vicar, cycling up the drive, had his mind on the best strategy for extracting the cost of a new church stove from Sir Lancelot. It would be the hard touch, he reflected sadly, on a morning that put stoves as laughably out of mind as plum puddings. Perhaps something could be managed with the fruits of the earth, Harvest Home, the countryside glittering prettily under six feet of snow, and the organist‘s bronchitis. But at least he was in for a decent lunch, and the claret - w hich he took for his blood — was the best in the diocese.