“Mr. Bateman,” said George briefly, as one who would pass on to better things.
A serious, palefaced young man bowed.
“And now,” continued George, “I must introduce you to Countess Radzky.”
Countess Radzky had been conversing with Mr. Bateman. Leaning very far back on a sofa, with her legs crossed in a daring manner, she was smoking a cigarette in an incredibly long turquoise-studded holder.
Bundle thought she was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Her eyes were very large and blue, her hair was coal black, she had a matte skin, the slightly flattened nose of the Slav, and a sinuous, slender body. Her lips were reddened to a degree with which Bundle was sure Wyvern Abbey was totally unacquainted.
She said eagerly: “This is Mrs. Macatta—yes?”
On George’s replying in the negative and introducing Bundle, the countess gave her a careless nod, and at once resumed her conversation with the serious Mr. Bateman.
Bundle heard Jimmy’s voice in her ear:
“Pongo is absolutely fascinated by the lovely Slav,” he said. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Come and have some tea.”
They drifted once more into the neighbourhood of Sir Oswald Coote.
“That’s a fine place of yours, Chimneys,” remarked the great man.
“I’m glad you liked it,” said Bundle meekly.
“Wants new plumbing,” said Sir Oswald. “Bring it up to date, you know.”
He ruminated for a minute or two.
“I’m taking the Duke of Alton’s place. Three years. Just while I’m looking round for a place of my own. Your father couldn’t sell if he wanted to, I suppose?”
Bundle felt her breath taken away. She had a nightmare vision of England with innumerable Cootes in innumerable counterparts of Chimneys—all, be it understood, with an entirely new system of plumbing installed.
She felt a sudden violent resentment which, she told herself, was absurd. After all, contrasting Lord Caterham with Sir Oswald Coote, there was no doubt as to who would go to the wall. Sir Oswald had one of those powerful personalities which make all those with whom they come in contact appear faded. He was, as Lord Caterham had said, a human steamroller. And yet, undoubtedly, in many ways, Sir Oswald was a stupid man. Apart from his special line of knowledge and his terrific driving force, he was probably intensely ignorant. A hundred delicate appreciations of life which Lord Caterham could and did enjoy were a sealed book to Sir Oswald.
Whilst indulging in these reflections Bundle continued to chat pleasantly. Herr Eberhard, she heard, had arrived, but was lying down with a nervous headache. This was told her by Mr. O’Rourke, who managed to find a place by her side and keep it.
Altogether, Bundle went up to dress in a pleasant mood of expectation, with a slight nervous dread hovering in the background whenever she thought of the imminent arrival of Mrs. Macatta. Bundle felt that dalliance with Mrs. Macatta was going to prove no primrose path.
Her first shock was when she came down, demurely attired in a black lace frock, and passed along the hall. A footman was standing there—at least a man dressed as a footman. But that square, burly figure lent itself badly to the deception. Bundle stopped and stared.
“Superintendent Battle,” she breathed.
“That’s right, Lady Eileen.”
“Oh!” said Bundle uncertainly. “Are you here to—to—?”
“Keep an eye on things.”
“I see.”
“That warning letter, you know,” said the Superintendent, “fairly put the wind up Mr. Lomax. Nothing would do for him but that I should come down myself.”
“But don’t you think—” began Bundle, and stopped. She hardly liked to suggest to the Superintendent that his disguise was not a particularly efficient one. He seemed to have “police officer” written all over him, and Bundle could hardly imagine the most unsuspecting criminal failing to be put on his guard.
“You think,” said the Superintendent stolidly, “that I might be recognized?”
He gave the final word a distinct capital letter.
“I did think so—yes—” admitted Bundle.
Something that might conceivably have been intended for a smile crossed the woodenness of Superintendent Battle’s features.
“Put them on their guard, eh? Well, Lady Eileen, why not?”
“Why not?” echoed Bundle—rather stupidly, she felt.
Superintendent Battle was nodding his head slowly.
“We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?” he said. “Don’t want to be too clever—just show any light-fingered gentry that may be about—well, just show them that there’s somebody on the spot, so to speak.”
Bundle gazed at him in some admiration. She could imagine that the sudden appearance of so renowned a personage as Superintendent Battle might have a depressing effect on any scheme and the hatchers of it.
“It’s a great mistake to be too clever,” Superintendent Battle was repeating. “The great thing is not to have any unpleasantness this weekend.”
Bundle passed on, wondering how many of her fellow guests had recognized or would recognize the Scotland Yard detective. In the drawing room George was standing with a puckered brow and an orange envelope in his hand.
“Most vexatious,” he said. “A telegram from Mrs. Macatta to say she will be unable to be with us. Her children are suffering from mumps.”
Bundle’s heart gave a throb of relief.
“I especially feel this on your account, Eileen,” said George kindly. “I know how anxious you were to meet her. The Countess too will be sadly disappointed.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Bundle. “I should hate it if she’d come and given me mumps.”
“A very distressing complaint,” agreed George. “But I do not think that infection could be carried that way. Indeed, I am sure that Mrs. Macatta would have run no risk of that kind. She is a most highly principled woman, with a very real sense of her responsibilities to the community. In these days of national stress, we must all take into account—”
On the brink of embarking on a speech, George pulled himself up short.
“But it must be for another time,” he said. “Fortunately there is no hurry in your case. But the Countess, alas, is only a visitor to our shores.”
“She’s a Hungarian, isn’t she?” said Bundle, who was curious about the Countess.
“Yes. You have heard, no doubt, of the Young Hungarian party. The Countess is a leader of that party. A woman of great wealth, left a widow at an early age, she has devoted her money and her talents to the public service. She has especially devoted herself to the problem of infant mortality—a terrible one under present conditions in Hungary. I—Ah! here is Herr Eberhard.”
The German inventor was younger than Bundle had imagined him. He was probably not more than thirty-three or four. He was boorish and ill at ease. And yet his personality was not an unpleasing one. His blue eyes were more shy than furtive, and his more unpleasant mannerisms, such as the one that Bill had described of gnawing his fingernails, arose, she thought, more from nervousness than from any other cause. He was thin and weedy in appearance and looked anaemic and delicate.
He conversed rather awkwardly with Bundle in stilted English and they both welcomed the interruption of the joyous Mr. O’Rourke. Presently Bill bustled in—there is no other word for it: in the same such way does a favoured Newfoundland make his entrance—and at once came over to Bundle. He was looking perplexed and harassed.
“Hullo, Bundle. Heard you’d got here. Been kept with my nose to the grindstone all the blessed afternoon or I’d have seen you before.”
“Cares of State heavy tonight?” suggested O’Rourke sympathetically.
Bill groaned.
“I don’t know what your fellow’s like,” he complained. “Looks a good-natured, tubby little chap. But Codders is absolutely impossible. Drive, drive, drive, from morning to night. Everything you do is wrong, and everything you haven’t done you ough
t to have done.”
“Quite like a quotation from the prayer book,” remarked Jimmy, who had just strolled up.
Bill glanced at him reproachfully.
“Nobody knows,” he said pathetically, “what I have to put up with.”
“Entertaining the Countess, eh?” suggested Jimmy. “Poor Bill, that must have been a sad strain to a woman hater like yourself.”
“What’s this?” asked Bundle.
“After tea,” said Jimmy with a grin, “the Countess asked Bill to show her round the interesting old place.”
“Well, I couldn’t refuse, could I?” said Bill, his countenance assuming a brick-red tint.
Bundle felt faintly uneasy. She knew, only too well, the susceptibility of Mr. William Eversleigh to female charms. In the hand of a woman like the Countess, Bill would be as wax. She wondered once more whether Jimmy Thesiger had been wise to take Bill into their confidence.
“The Countess,” said Bill, “is a very charming woman. And no end intelligent. You should have seen her going round the house. All sorts of questions she asked.”
“What kind of questions?” asked Bundle suddenly.
Bill was vague.
“Oh! I don’t know. About the history of it. And old furniture. And—oh! all sorts of things.”
At that moment the Countess swept into the room. She seemed a shade breathless. She was looking magnificent in a close-fitting black velvet gown. Bundle noticed how Bill gravitated at once to her immediate neighbourhood. The serious spectacled young man joined him.
“Bill and Pongo have both got it badly,” observed Jimmy Thesiger with a laugh.
Bundle was by no means so sure that it was a laughing matter.
Seventeen
AFTER DINNER
George was not a believer in modern innovations. The Abbey was innocent of anything so up to date as central heating. Consequently, when the ladies entered the drawing room after dinner, the temperature of the room was woefully inadequate to the needs of modern evening clothes. The fire that burnt in the well-furnished steel grate became as a magnet. The three women huddled round it.
“Brrrrrrrrrr!” said the Countess, a fine, exotic foreign sound.
“The days are drawing in,” said Lady Coote, and drew a flowered atrocity of a scarf closer about her ample shoulders.
“Why on earth doesn’t George have the house properly heated?” said Bundle.