“You don’t agree.”
“The man was an absolute ignoramus. Knew nothing of modern discoveries. Doubt if he’d ever heard of a neurosis! He understood measles and mumps and broken bones all right, I suppose. But nothing else. Had a row with him in the end. He didn’t understand Lydia’s case at all. I gave it him straight from the shoulder and he didn’t like it. Got huffed and backed right out. Said I could send for any other doctor I chose. After that, we had Thomas.”
“You liked him better?”
“Altogether a much cleverer man. If anyone could have pulled her through her last illness Thomas would have done it. As a matter of fact she was getting better, but she had a sudden relapse.”
“Was it painful?”
“H’m, yes. Gastritis. Acute pain—sickness—all the rest of it. How that poor woman suffered! She was a martyr if there ever was one. And a couple of hospital nurses in the house who were about as sympathetic as a brace of grandfather clocks! ‘The patient this’ and ‘the patient that.’” The major shook his head and drained his glass. “Can’t stand hospital nurses! So smug. Lydia insisted they were poisoning her. That wasn’t true, of course—a regular sick fancy—lots of people have it, so Thomas said—but there was this much truth behind it—those women disliked her. That’s the worst of women—always down on their own sex.”
“I suppose,” said Luke, feeling that he was putting it awkwardly but not seeing how to put it better, “that Mrs. Horton had a lot of devoted friends in Wychwood?”
“People were very kind,” said the major somewhat grudgingly. “Whitfield sent down grapes and peaches from his hothouse. And the old tabbies used to come and sit with her. Honoria Waynflete and Lavinia Pinkerton.”
“Miss Pinkerton came often, did she?”
“Yes. Regular old maid—but a kind creature! Very worried about Lydia she was. Used to inquire into the diet and the medicines. All kindly meant, you know, but what I call a lot of fuss.”
Luke nodded comprehendingly.
“Can’t stand fuss,” said the major. “Too many women in this place. Difficult to get a decent game of golf.”
“What about the young fellow at the antique shop?” said Luke.
The major snorted:
“He doesn’t play golf. Much too much of a Miss Nancy.”
“Has he been in Wychwood long?”
“About two years. Nasty sort of fellow. Hate those long-haired purring chaps. Funnily enough Lydia liked him. You can’t trust women’s judgement about men. They cotton to some amazing bounders. She even insisted on taking some patent quack nostrum of his. Stuff in a purple glass jar with signs of the Zodiac all over it! Supposed to be certain herbs picked at the full of the moon. Lot of tomfoolery, but women swallow that stuff—swallow it literally too—ha, ha!”
Luke said, feeling that he was changing the subject rather abruptly, but correctly judging that Major Horton would not be aware of the fact:
“What sort of fellow is Abbot, the local solicitor? Pretty sound on the law? I’ve got to have some legal advice about something and I thought I might go to him.”
“They say he’s pretty shrewd,” acknowledged Major Horton. “I don’t know. Matter of fact I’ve had a row with him. Not seen him since he came out here to make Lydia’s will for her just before she died. In my opinion that man’s a cad. But of course,” he added, “that doesn’t affect his ability as a lawyer.”
“No, of course not,” said Luke. “He seems a quarrelsome sort of man, though. Seems to have fallen out with a good many people from what I hear.”
“Trouble with him is that he’s so confoundedly touchy,” said Major Horton. “Seems to think he’s God Almighty and that anyone who disagrees with him is committing lèse-majesté. Heard of his row with Humbleby?”
“They had a row, did they?”
“First-class row. Mind you, that doesn’t surprise me. Humbleby was an opinionated ass! Still, there it is.”
“His death was very sad.”
“Humbleby’s? Yes, I suppose it was. Lack of ordinary care. Blood poisoning’s a damned dangerous thing. Always put iodine on a cut—I do! Simple precaution. Humbleby, who’s a doctor, doesn’t do anything of the sort. It just shows.”
Luke was not quite sure what it showed, but he let that pass. Glancing at his watch he got up.
Major Horton said:
“Getting on for lunchtime? So it is. Well, glad to have had a chat with you. Does me good to see a man who’s been about the world a bit. We must have a yarn some other time. Where was your show? Mayang Straits? Never been there. Hear you’re writing a book. Superstitions and all that.”
“Yes—I—”
But Major Horton swept on.
“I can tell you several very interesting things. When I was in India, my boy—”
Luke escaped some ten minutes later after enduring the usual histories of fakirs, rope and mango tricks, dear to the retired Anglo-Indian.
As he stepped out into the open air, and heard the major’s voice bellowing to Nero behind him, he marvelled at the miracle of married life. Major Horton seemed genuinely to regret a wife who, by all accounts, not excluding his own, must have been nearly allied to a man-eating tiger.
Or was it—Luke asked himself the question suddenly—was it an exceedingly clever bluff?
Twelve
PASSAGE OF ARMS
The afternoon of the tennis party was fortunately fine. Lord Whitfield was in his most genial mood, acting the part of the host with a good deal of enjoyment. He referred frequently to his humble origin. The players were eight in all. Lord Whitfield, Bridget, Luke, Rose Humbleby, Mr. Abbot, Dr. Thomas, Major Horton and Hetty Jones, a giggling young woman who was the daughter of the bank manager.
In the second set of the afternoon, Luke found himself partnering Bridget against Lord Whitfield and Rose Humbleby. Rose was a good player with a strong forehand drive and played in county matches. She atoned for Lord Whitfield’s failures, and Bridget and Luke, who were neither of them particularly strong, made quite an even match of it. They were three games all, and then Luke found a streak of erratic brilliance and he and Bridget forged ahead to five-three.
It was then he observed that Lord Whitfield was losing his temper. He argued over a line ball, declared a serve to be a fault in spite of Rose’s disclaimer, and displayed all the attributes of a peevish child. It was set point, but Bridget sent an easy shot into the net and immediately after served a double fault. Deuce. The next ball was returned down the middle line and as he prepared to take it he and his partner collided. Then Bridget served another double fault and the game was lost.
Bridget apologized. “Sorry, I’ve gone to pieces.”
It seemed true enough. Bridget’s shots were wild and she seemed to be unable to do anything right. The set ended with Lord Whitfield and his partner victorious at the score of eight-six.
There was a momentary discussion as to the composition of the next set. In the end Rose played again with Mr. Abbot as her partner against Dr. Thomas and Miss Jones.
Lord Whitfield sat down, wiping his forehead and smiling complacently, his good humour quite restored. He began to talk to Major Horton on the subject of a series of articles on Fitness for Britain which one of his papers was starring.
Luke said to Bridget:
“Show me the kitchen garden.”
“Why the kitchen garden?”
“I have a feeling for cabbages.”
“Won’t green peas do?”
“Green peas would be admirable.”
They walked away from the tennis court and came to the walled kitchen garden. It was empty of gardeners this Saturday afternoon and looked lazy and peaceful in the sunshine.
“Here are your peas,” said Bridget.
Luke paid no attention to the object of the visit. He said:
“Why the hell did you give them the set?”
Bridget’s eyebrows went up a fraction.
“I’m sorry. I went to bits. My tennis i
s erratic.”
“Not so erratic as that! Those double faults of yours wouldn’t deceive a child! And those wild shots—each of them half a mile out!”
Bridget said calmly:
“That’s because I’m such a rotten tennis player. If I were a bit better I could perhaps have made it a bit more plausible! But as it is if I try to make a ball go just out, it’s always on the line and all the good work still to do.”
“Oh, you admit it then?”
“Obvious, my dear Watson.”
“And the reason?”
“Equally obvious, I should have thought. Gordon doesn’t like losing.”
“And what about me? Supposing I like to win?”
“I’m afraid, my dear Luke, that that isn’t equally important.”
“Would you like to make your meaning just a little clearer still?”
“Certainly, if you like. One mustn’t quarrel with one’s bread and butter. Gordon is my bread and butter. You are not.”
Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.
“What the hell do you mean by marrying that absurd little man? Why are you doing it?”
“Because as his secretary I get six pounds a week, and as his wife I shall get a hundred thousand settled on me, a jewel case full of pearls and diamonds, a handsome allowance, and various perquisites of the married state!”
“But for somewhat different duties!”
Bridget said coldly:
“Must we have this melodramatic attitude towards every single thing in life? If you are contemplating a pretty picture of Gordon as an uxorious husband, you can wash it right out! Gordon, as you should have realized, is a small boy who has not quite grown up. What he needs is a mother, not a wife. Unfortunately his mother died when he was four years old. What he wants is someone at hand to whom he can brag, someone who will reassure him about himself and who is prepared to listen indefinitely to Lord Whitfield on the subject of Himself!”
“You’ve got a bitter tongue, haven’t you?”
Bridget retorted sharply:
“I don’t tell myself fairy stories if that’s what you mean! I’m a young woman with a certain amount of intelligence, very moderate looks, and no money. I intend to earn an honest living. My job as Gordon’s wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordon’s secretary. After a year I doubt if he’ll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary.”
They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly:
“Go on. You’re rather old-fashioned, aren’t you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadn’t you better trot out the old clichés—say that I’m selling myself for money—that’s always a good one, I think!”
Luke said: “You’re a cold-blooded little devil!”