Lucia Triumphant (13 page)

‘
Possibly,' said Georgie.

‘
Of course, poor Elizabeth would not be affected by this influence. Grebe is a very fine house, in a functional way, but not historic or architecturally outstanding in any sense. On the other hand, perhaps we should suggest to Mr. Cuthbertson that his survey would not be complete without a representative of relatively modern domestic architecture.'

Georgie could take a hint, especially one this strong. He resented forever being made Lucia's mouthpiece, but consoled himself with the thought that this made him what the newspapers termed ‘reliable official sources'; perhaps even ‘sources close to the Mayor'. And he would at least have the satisfaction of being the first with the news.

‘
So,
Georgino
, not a word to anyone for the present. But we might take a stroll round the town after dinner and make a few notes. I imagine half a dozen houses will suffice for Mr. Cuthbertson's purposes.'

Lucia resumed her place on the piano-stool.

‘
And now, I think I might venture just a few bars of that immortal work. Shall I dare,
Georgino
?'

Georgie reassured her that she might dare as she played the First Movement of the Moonlight, he sat, chin on wrist in the approved manner, and bethought him of how he might disseminate this latest breach of confidence. Had he, he wondered, happened to catch sight of the letter lying open on Lucia's desk and cast an idle glance over its contents? Or had Lucia confided the whole story to him and confessed herself baffled as to which houses she ought to recommend? Then he would be able to play the
rôle
of the concerned husband, who, distressed at the sight of his wife's perplexity, was seeking the wise counsel of his friends.

The slow movement ended and both breathed the well-known music sigh of wistful satisfaction which Lucia had brought with her from her former domain of Riseholme, where she had ruled virtually
assoluta
before her conquest of Tilling, and which only the ill-bred would venture to associate with indigestion.

‘
Ah, divine Beethoven!' said Lucia, gently closing the lid of the piano. ‘And now I fear I must tear myself away from these enchantments and write a brief note of acknowledgement to Mr. Cuthbertson. Such a pity I had to let Mrs. Simpson go.'

Georgie recollected Lucia's secretary and remembered that that worthy and hard-working woman had nearly exhausted Lucia's ingenuity in finding something to keep her occupied for at least an hour a day.

‘
So tar'some,' he said. ‘You ought to learn typing yourself. '

Lucia seemed to shudder slightly at the thought. ‘When would I find the time? And then I must go across to the Town Hall and see what else they have for me today. I hope I haven't kept them waiting. But everything can wait for divine Beethoven.'

 

Diva had chased the sheet of wrapping-paper from Church Square to the foot of West Street, only to see it go under the wheels of a motor-car and perish utterly. Irene had watched the hunt from the upstairs window of Taormina, whence she had retired after her persecution of Elizabeth, and had sought to encourage Diva with various cries from the vocabulary of
la chasse.
She now joined the baffled huntress, who was with difficulty recovering her breath.

‘
Gone to earth, I should say. But never mind, I've got a paper-bag at home you could put up. The wind's about nor'-nor'-east, so if we launched it from the top of Porpoise Street—'

‘
Very funny!' said the panting Diva. ‘Cost me threepence and now look at it.'

‘
Up goes half a guinea, bang goes a penny and down comes half-a-crown,' said Irene sympathetically. ‘Still, it's not what you get for the carcass, it's the sport that counts. But I agree, that one's only fit for the dogs now.'

‘
Oh well,' said Diva obliviously, ‘I'll have to get some more. Any news this morning?'

‘
Elizabeth a bit reluctant to talk about her Royal connections, to me at any rate. Typical Mapp! Oh yes, and Lucia's started playing the piano again. The Moonlight, I think it was.'

‘
I heard that too,' confirmed Diva.

‘
And a man from the Town Hall took a letter round to Mallards. I watched him all the way. A white envelope with a stamp.'

‘
Golly!' exclaimed Diva. ‘I wonder what that could be.'

‘
Another death-warrant for her to sign, of course. Mapp's, with any luck. Gosh, what a swell.'

A tall, aristocratic-looking woman had stepped out of the doorway of the King's Arms, accompanied by a massive borzoi. Suddenly, the dog stopped dead, sniffed the air noisily and then sprang forward, slipping its lead. Diva and Irene stared in astonishment as the beast sprinted past them and leapt at Susan Wyse, who had stepped down from the Royce to post a letter. The borzoi gripped Susan's enormous fur coat in its strong jaws and pulled it from her back, then stood on it and growled threateningly.

‘
It took Susan Wyse for a bear!' cried Irene joyfully. ‘Quite an understandable mistake for a Russian dog, I suppose.'

Mr. Wyse stepped nimbly from the motor and paused for a moment as if nerving himself to confront the ferocious animal. Then it apparently occurred to him that his first duty must be to comfort his wife.

‘
Get that thing off my sables!' shrieked Susan, shaking her fist.

‘
Pray do not excite the animal, my dear, lest he do further damage to the garment. Let us await the arrival of the owner.'

The aristocratic woman was not long in coming. ‘Paddy!' she commanded, and the dog reluctantly left its trophy and submitted to the lead.

‘
There's a coincidence!' whispered Diva.

‘
I am most fearfully sorry,' said the aristocratic woman in a rather beautiful voice. ‘Do let me pay for the damage my wicked Paddy may have done.'

Mr. Wyse bowed from the waist and then signalled to the chauffeur to retrieve the coat. Paddy growled, causing the chauffeur to hesitate, and it was Susan Wyse who darted fearlessly forth to retrieve her beloved sables. Once reunited with them, she became calmer.

‘
There appears to be no damage,' said Mr. Wyse without looking. The borzoi is a soft-mouthed breed, is it not? Pray do not concern yourself over such a trifling incident.'

‘
Most kind of you,' said the aristocrat. ‘But please do let me give you my card. Should there turn out to be any mark, you will of course notify me. Come along, Paddy.'

The woman departed up West Street, and Diva and Irene hurried over to the victim of the attack. She was staring with evident fascination at the card; but when she became aware of Diva and Irene she thrust it swiftly under the palm of her glove. Clearly the identity of that superior person was not to be disclosed.

‘
Susan dear, what a horrible adventure!' exclaimed Diva, her eyes riveted on the glove. ‘Step across to Wasters and have a cup of tea. Or,' she added, for expense was unimportant at a time like this, ‘a glass of sherry.'

‘
It was nothing, really,' said Susan. ‘And it's not every day one meets—' she checked herself and then said, ‘meets such a charming woman. So insistent that she should pay for any damage.'

‘
Who was she?' demanded Irene shamelessly. ‘She looked a real toff to me. That's just like the ruling classes, setting their dogs on the proletariat.'

Both Wyses directed at Irene a glance of such pure ice that even she was cowed for a moment and mumbled, ‘All right then, don't tell me.'

‘
Come Susan,' said Mr. Wyse stiffly. ‘Good morning, Mrs. Plaistow. We meet at Mallards for Monopoly tomorrow, do we not?'

And with this alliterative dismissal, the Wyses ascended the Royce and were gone. Diva turned and shot a glance up West Street. The aristocratic woman was standing outside the garden-room inspecting the new curtains with obvious interest. Diva nudged Irene and, as they watched, the noblewoman seemed to come to a decision. She walked up to the front-door and rang the bell. Soon Grosvenor answered it and they spoke together for a while.

‘
Lucia's out and Georgie too,' whispered Irene. ‘Will she leave a card?'

Even as she spoke, the woman took a card from her card-case and presented it to Grosvenor; then she turned and was lost to sight.

‘
She'll need to get some more engraved at this rate,' concluded Irene. ‘Still, what fascination!'

‘
Our curtains,' said Diva. ‘Perhaps she's a collector.'

‘
What's she collecting for then, the Red Cross? Or the Lifeboats? Look, there's the Padre. Hoots, mon, ye'll never guess what we've seen.'

And they scurried across to tell him.

 

 

Lucia made several tours of inspection in her search for houses worthy of recommendation to the editor of
County Life;
for although she knew every stick and stone of the town by now, this new responsibility seemed to demand a fresh assessment. Although only she and Georgie knew about the forthcoming visit to the town by the photographer and the journalist of that respected publication, she found to her surprise that a wave of interest in all things architectural had broken over Tilling. All her friends were able (and ready, on every possible occasion) to point out with great authority and command of really quite difficult technical terms all the many and varied peculiarities and fascinations of their respective houses. This was especially flattering for Lucia, to whom everyone brought their architectural discoveries (for how could they be aware of her brief authority in this field?) and it was clear that a hitherto undisclosed respect for her taste and judgement in matters of aesthetics was being manifested.

‘
As an example of the very best half-timbering,' declared Susan Wyse with a degree of passion that the subject hardly seemed to merit, ‘Starling Cottage is unrivalled in Tilling. My dear Algernon and I have endeavoured to restore it to its authentic splendour by removing the blacking from the external beams—that is a West Country tradition and quite alien to the southeast coast—but in every other respect we have been the most cautious guardians of our treasured heritage.'

Lucia regarded her judicially over the rim of her coffee-cup.

‘
But surely,' she interposed while Susan was taking a breath, ‘the old, low Tudor houses in Church Square are every bit as characteristic of the style and the period, and such delightful windows!'

Susan Wyse sniffed impatiently at this irrelevance, for the Tudor houses in Church Square belonged to no one of any importance; a dentist and a retired stockbroker, neither of them in Society. It would be a scandal if Lucia had
their
houses pictured in
County Life.

‘
Chocolate-box houses!' she declared. ‘Why, you could find their exact doubles in any town in England. But Starling Cottage has line, form, grace; it is virtually unique—'

‘
If you ask me,' interrupted Diva, ‘all these Tudor houses are much of a muchness. Boxes with bits of wood stuck on them, and sometimes the walls aren't even straight. If I were writing—well, a book, say, on Tilling architecture—I'd want to mention the late seventeenth-century brick, such as Wasters, for example.'

‘
Or Taormina,' broke in Irene. ‘Magnificent example of late seventeenth-century artisan's dwelling. That's real
Volkskunst,
and completely unspoilt.'

‘
I know dear,' snapped Diva. ‘You're always saying you're going to have it done up properly when you've got the money, but you've never got around to it. Very fortunate, considering your latest ideas for improvements.'

Irene had planned to knock down all the internal walls and half the downstairs ceiling, replacing the stairs with a knotted rope. She made a face at Diva.

‘
While we're on the subject of the late seventeenth century,' said Evie quickly (for who could say when she might next be able to speak?), ‘the Vicarage is of tremendous architectural interest. The chimneys, you know, and the miniature Greek metope over the doorway.'

‘
What's so special about your chimneys?' demanded Diva, but Lucia, observing that the debate was growing rather acrimonious, interrupted her.

‘
How fortunate we all are in living in such a picturesque town,' she said regally, ‘and how fortunate am I to be the owner of what, in all honesty, I must confess to be the chief ornament of its domestic architecture. I feel I can say that without being condemned as a vain, boastful woman. I did not build Mallards—I only bought it. Its splendours, then, reflect not on me but upon the original builder whose name, alas, is lost to us. Ah, here they are at last. How you men love to tarry over your port, leaving us all alone.'

Georgie would gladly have swallowed his half-glass at a gulp, for the Padre had been giving him a lecture on the Vicarage windows and he felt that he had escaped only just in time to avoid the written test afterwards. To Georgie, a house was a simply a structure for going to tea in. His own passion was for furniture and porcelain, and
County Life
had expressed no interest in them.

‘
The Padre and I have been having such an interesting chat,' he nevertheless announced, for he had given his word that he would. ‘All about windows. Did you know that the Vicarage—'