Lucia Triumphant (21 page)

‘
I might,' said Benjy nonchalantly. ‘Don't know if I can spare the time. Other commitments, you know. Still, if you think the Committee might look favourably ....'

‘
Ah, yes,' said Mr. Phillipson. ‘I heard you had taken up local history or something of the sort. Well, if you want us to consider you for that seat, let me know. No other applicants as yet. Apathy, I call it.' He hit the ball again: again it soared up into the air, but this time cleared the lip of the bunker by a good four inches. ‘That's better. Well, cheerio for now.'

Major Benjy had often yearned to be on the Committee of the club he had for so long graced with his membership; he had once gone so far as to stand for election, but had received only one vote (his own). Now here was another opportunity and a better one; he did not wish to expose himself to the humiliation of another ballot, but co-option might well prove a feasible course. He felt reluctant to let this opportunity slip by. But how to manage it?

‘
Well then, Padre,' he said, ‘shall we continue our match?'

His mind was not on the game as they flailed their way round the remaining holes, with the result that he beat the Padre easily and separated him from two shillings. That was a good omen in itself. He was silent in the tram back to Tilling, giving the Padre another chance to air his views on scholarship in early Christian Britain. Benjy wanted to find some tactic, some ploy that would guarantee him that longed-for seat on the Committee, and, as they drew into the Tilling terminus, an idea came to him. For the tram came in sight of the Cricket Club pavilion, which was being roused from its hibernation by the flannelled fools of the town. Lucia, he recalled, had secured for herself the presidency of that unlikely organization simply by presenting them with a new pavilion and a new roller. Could he use such a scheme to win himself the far nobler prize of a Golf Club Committee seat? He could not, of course, afford to equip the club with a new club-house, and besides, the old one had just been renovated. But a small, unostentatious gift might cause the membership to think more highly of him. A trophy of some sort; the Flint Shield for mixed foursomes, perhaps, might be competed for and the competitors must inevitably think kindly of the man who had instituted the noble prize. Instead of walking straight home, therefore, he stopped off at the jeweller's and made enquiries about the price of a presentation silver tray. The jeweller told him.

‘
How much?' he exclaimed, horrified. ‘Oh well, forget it.'

Then he walked home.

 

Lucia thought it advisable not to release the news of her encounter with the Black Spaniard. Anything that savoured of a stunt would be hazardous at present and even at the best of times a reputation for seeing things could be a mixed blessing, if not a positive handicap. On the other hand, it was perfectly safe to pass on the various stories recounted in
Legends of Old Sussex,
and she found that the topic was of interest to all her friends. Susan Wyse was by nature inclined towards Spiritualism and firmly believed that the departed could return. She preferred to contact them through
séance
or Ouija-board, rather than have them drop in on her uninvited and was in two minds whether she liked the thought of living in a street haunted by the shades of smugglers and such disreputable persons; nevertheless, she did not allow her reservations about the suitability of such ghosts as her neighbours to disturb her belief in the existence of the Spirit World. Diva, who had lived in the High Street for many years without ever seeing or hearing a phantom coach, suddenly became terribly aware of any noises after dark and had extra shutters put on all her windows. Irene, who was a neighbour of the Grey Lady, set about the secret construction of a shapeless grey garment in which to imitate the spectre under Mr. Hopkins's window (for that blameless tradesman had complained about her playing of the ukelele late into the night); while the Padre refreshed his memory of the Service of Exorcism and sent to a specialist ecclesiastical supplier in London for a selection of exorcising bells on approval. The Black Spaniard was, of course, the best of all the ghosts in Tilling and it seemed only fitting that Lucia should have the use of it, so to speak. When asked if she had ever seen it herself, she would shudder, smile a brittle smile and change the subject, so that everyone was left in no doubt that she had.

Elizabeth, not unnaturally, resented this and set about quizzing her neighbours and their servants and gardeners for any mythological reminiscences concerning Grebe. When she had almost given up hope of ever finding anything, she happened to fall into conversation with a gnarled old man who delivered the coal. He was not prepared to commit himself on the subject, but he seemed to remember that his grandfather, who had been one of the men who had worked on the construction of Grebe, had spoken of rumours of a French sea-captain who might have haunted the area before the house was built. Elizabeth toyed with this legend for a while and practised shuddering and changing the subject; but the connection was too tenuous and her recent immersion in the habits of scholars caused her to place no reliance on an unsupported oral tradition, especially since Lucia might be irritated by her French sea-captain and start her own researches into the story. So Elizabeth decided to outflank Lucia and annex the Black Spaniard. She declared, therefore, that she had known about that distinguished ghost since her childhood; Aunt Caroline had seen him so often that she stopped noticing him, and she herself was virtually on first-name terms. Certainly, she could not understand what all the fuss was about; a ghost was only a ghost after all.

Supernatural visitations apart, Elizabeth had other things on her mind. For a start, there was the matter of ensuring that Major Benjy was co-opted on to the Committee of the Golf Club. Her canvassing had been discreet at first. She had taken a sprained wrist to Dr. Dobbie, as prominent in golfing circles as in medicine, and had done her best to drop hints; but that grim man had resolutely failed to notice them. She had called at Woolgar and Pipstow to enquire whether it would be worthwhile letting Grebe for the summer; but Mr. Woolgar, the Secretary of the Club, was out and Mr. Pipstow had nearly turned her out of her own house before she was able to escape. Finally, she had gone to see the dentist in his pretty little cottage in Church Square, for he was a highly respected golfer. But she made the tactical error of allowing him to remove her plate for examination, with the result that she could not make herself understood.

Having suffered all these reverses, Elizabeth was thrown back upon Benjy's original idea of a Challenge Trophy. She quickly overcame the major obstacle, that of expense, by suggesting that they look out for some reasonably priced article of silverware at the sale at Breakspear Hall. A relatively cheap piece could be bought and engraved for a fraction of the cost of a new one. Not that expense was an overriding consideration in this case; she was prepared to go as high as six pounds for a suitable specimen, since she had long felt that it was high time that the Major's golf should be put to some sort of social use. Further urgency was added by the rumour that Dr. Dobbie and Mr. Phillipson were considering asking the dentist whether he might be interested in the vacant seat, Major Benjy being as yet the only candidate.

On the appointed day, therefore, Elizabeth and the Major set off in the motor for Breakspear Hall. Their journey was uneventful (except that a herd of cows delayed them for quite ten minutes and one beast tried to eat the spare wheel) and they arrived with three-quarters of an hour in hand. Elizabeth spent the time in making a rigorous examination of the property, pointing out numerous patches of damp to her husband and detecting several areas of quite deep dust on some pieces of furniture. She also formed a very low opinion of the taste of the late owner, taking especial exception to a rather gaudy painting of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian on the ceiling of the dining-room, which her guide-book later informed her was by Angelica Kauffmann. Major Benjy expressed an interest in a set of steel-shafted drivers and some split-cane fishing-rods, which Elizabeth was quick to discourage. She pointed out that he already had more than enough golf-clubs and he never went fishing—to which he replied that he could hardly go fishing without any rods.

The discussion that ensued filled up most of the remaining time, so that there were only a few minutes to go when Elizabeth noticed a small, flat, tarnished silver tray which, together with a huge, drab urn and a rather ugly oil-painting, comprised the thirtieth lot.

‘
There!' she exclaimed. ‘That would do splendidly for your Challenge Trophy. Look, no dents or scratches to speak of. All it needs is a good polish.'

She bent over the tray and examined it closely as the auctioneer, young Mr. Pipstow, entered the room. There was a rather florid coat of arms (but that was of no consequence) and a name inscribed on the bottom, just to the left of the gummed label showing the lot number. She peered at the name and the shock of recognition nearly made her lose her balance. As young Mr. Pipstow requested everyone to take their seats for the beginning of the sale, Elizabeth distinctly made out, in small but clear-cut letters, her own surname.

 

 

The sight of the three-wheeler returning, heavily laden, from Breakspear Hall was witnessed only by the lamp-lighter, and, since he was a naturally morose and untalkative man, he held his peace on the subject. This was probably just as well, for the spectacle of Major Benjy with a tarnished silver tray under one arm, a dull-framed portrait on his knees and an enormous porcelain urn clasped to his bosom would have provided men and women of ill-will with great scope for sardonic comment.

Elizabeth gave little or no thought to appearances as she drove the vehicle down the Military Road in the gathering darkness, for her thoughts were divided between two subjects, one deeply troublesome, one so inviting as to be scarcely fit to be considered for fear of tempting providence.

The cause of concern was the fifteen pounds which she had been compelled to pay to secure the three rather unattractive objects that filled her little car to overflowing. The bidding had started at four pounds ten shillings and Elizabeth had indicated that she thought this a reasonable price by waving her glove. The hall had been silent, except for the passionate eloquence of young Mr. Pipstow. The lot had been offered—once, twice—and then a little man in an old overcoat, who kept a small second-hand furniture shop in the town, had offered five pounds. Elizabeth had responded at once by offering another ten shillings, but the little man had met her bid and surpassed it, and, before she knew where she was, Elizabeth had found herself promising twelve pounds for the lot. That had silenced her rival, but an elderly lady with a
lorgnette,
who had up till then been asleep, had ventured twelve pounds ten shillings and had refused to let go, like the bulldog she so much resembled, until the price had risen to fourteen pounds. Just as the sale seemed as good as made, a young man with a pencil moustache had, probably just to be awkward broken in with fourteen pounds ten shillings and Elizabeth was forced once again to wave her glove.

Yet the thought that in the silver tray Elizabeth had secured evidence of the survival of the family de Map, whose florid crest surely occupied the surface area of the tray, made even fifteen pounds seem irrelevant. Furthermore, the tray had come from no less a place than Breakspear Hall, and unless the occupants of that magnificent dwelling were in the habit of purchasing their silver second-hand, it could only mean that between herself and the Perowne family (now all sadly deceased, hence the sale) there must be ties of blood.

The likeliest explanation was that a Miss Mapp of some preceeding generation had married a Mr. Perowne. Thus the silver tray was all that remained of an apparently lavish dowry. What had become of the rest of it was not her business and the thought that she might conceivably stand to inherit at least part of the considerable wealth of the Perownes only fleetingly crossed her mind. What mattered most was that she had found the vital piece of evidence that she had known must exist somewhere. What could all Lucia's Latin manuscripts avail her now?

The motor was parked, the trophies were transferred to the dining-room of Grebe, Major Benjy had been cast forth. With a little silver polish and a soft, clean cloth, Elizabeth sat down and began to work. Under her fingers details began to emerge of the coat of arms. It was, to say the least, distinctive. A shield on which crossed keys were quartered with what looked like dolphins was supported by two fishermen in quaint but unmistakable apparel. The piscatorial theme was confirmed by a large crowned lobster that surmounted the shield and she deduced that the dolphins were in all probability cod, and that the crossed keys signified St. Peter as patron saint of fisher-folk. This maritime symbolism seemed faintly out of place in the arms of a family as distinguished as the de Maps, and it was with mounting curiosity that she clarified the motto. Her recently sharpened Latin enabled her to translate it, but she could not quite comprehend why her family should have chosen the well-known text ‘I shall make you fishers of men'.

She had cleaned the coat of arms first simply in order to delay the moment of truth when she must investigate the name at the bottom. It still read Mapp, just as clearly as it had under the unique chandeliers of Breakspear Hall. She polished round it, the letters did not change. With tentative fingers she picked off the gummed label that showed the lot number ....

Major Benjy, taking a surreptitious gulp of sherry from the decanter in the dining-room (he had drunk straight from the decanter to eliminate the necessity of washing out a glass in secret), heard a sound like a gong, struck hard, and what could well have been a cry of rage and despair. His first thought was of the French sea-captain, whose ghost might possibly be haunting the house. But if the oath had been an oath (and the Major had been a soldier long enough to recognise an oath when he heard one), why should a Frenchman, no matter how long he had been haunting an English house, swear in anything other than his native tongue?