Sheiks and Adders (3 page)

The sudden desolation of this scene was very striking, but at the same time a little mitigated by what, near the centre of the basin, had the momentary appearance of a brilliantly sunlit pond. But the pond was too blue to be true, and was in fact a small remaining sea of bluebells. And then Appleby saw that this spectacle had diverted his gaze from something else. There was also a real pond – but one dark and only faintly glinting. Beside it on the grass was seated a strikingly beautiful girl. She was quite immobile, but she was copiously weeping. So fast fell her tears, indeed, that she might have been a garden statue designed softly to replenish the pool below.

Appleby’s immediate impulse was to withdraw from this strange scene as silently as he had come upon it. His presence had not yet been observed by the dolorous maiden, and his position was such that he could quickly drop out of view. Had the grief of a child been in question, he might have advanced and seen what comfort he could provide. But this was a young adult, not a child, so it would surely be intrusive to march up to her and propose consolation. She had chosen this solitary spot for her weeping, and must be left to get on with it.

Yet Appleby hesitated. He did so, he realized, because of something inherently perplexing in the spectacle before him. It wasn’t precisely that there was anything theatrical about it; yet it did hauntingly suggest some familiar deliverance of art. Whether in poetry or in painting – or even, conceivably, in music – he couldn’t tell. The ring of dead trees by which the vision was encircled certainly contributed to this effect. So did the girl’s attire. There ought to be a rock – Appleby suddenly told himself – of bizarre configuration unknown to geology, and this young person in mediaeval dress ought to be chained to it. A dragon – preferably rather a comical dragon – ought to be breathing fire in the background. And he himself – a Saint George rather than a Sir John – ought to be advancing to sort things out – on horseback and armed.

This train of thought was interrupted by the girl, who had sprung swiftly and gracefully to her feet. She was tall and slender, and her flowing green gown, which extended to her ankles, was girdled low and seemingly precariously on her hips, with the long embroidered tongue of this sole adornment depending between her knees. The effect was mediaeval enough, but mediaeval in a manner mediated through Pre-Raphaelite eyes. The scene upon which Appleby had stumbled might have been a picture telling a story in the manner of Millais or Holman-Hunt and have borne a title like
The Broken Tryst
or
After the Fatal Word
. Only some minor prescriptive element in the hinted fable was missing: perhaps a faded flower, or a love-letter, or even a blood-stained dagger, lying abandoned beside the small dark pool.

Had Sir John Appleby not been indulging this useless fancy he might have more quickly become aware of why the girl had jumped up as she had done. It was because she had registered his presence and was disposed to some positive reaction to it. This, indeed, was so immediately apparent as to make it impossible for him simply to turn round and walk away. The girl’s connection with anything to be thought of as a courtly society doubtless extended no farther than her dress. Nor could she be described as conducting herself by any means
en princesse
, since her blubbering appearance was of a childish order and she was now looking distinctly cross. Nevertheless Appleby felt that some touch or token of the chivalric was required of him. No dragon showed any sign of turning up; there wasn’t even a rude carl or a sorceress disguised as a nun in the offing; nor were the shades of evening beginning alarmingly to fall. Despite all this, however, simply to murmur a civil ‘Good afternoon’ and then pass on would somehow be inadequate to the small but definite situation that had established itself. So Appleby was about to utter what would, without doubt, have been apt and adequate words when the young woman forestalled him.

‘Go away, you horrid beast!’ the young woman said loudly. ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with any of you. And I think my father is very silly to have brought in all that rubbish, and a lot of people like you as well. So there!’

‘I beg your pardon – and I shall certainly go away at once. But I think, madam, you must be under some misapprehension. I have not been “brought in” by your father, as you express it, and I think it most improbable that he and I have ever heard of one another.’

‘Aren’t you one of the people with the wardrobe?’

‘My dear young woman, it must be plain to you that my age precludes my being in employment as a furniture remover.’ Appleby had refrained from turning away – for the encounter had now developed into an affair of cross-purposes that amused him. ‘So here is another misapprehension, it seems to me.’

‘I don’t mean
that
sort of wardrobe, you stupid man!’ The young woman, as she made this extremely rude speech, stamped what appeared to be a sandalled foot soundlessly on the grass. ‘And why are you dressed like a gentleman? It’s too absurd!’

‘Why do I talk like one, for that matter? Say that it’s a deception that I’ve kept up more or less successfully for years. And now, listen. Get it out of your head that I’m somebody down from London with a pantechnicon. I’ve left my car on the high road to take a walk through this wood. And I find you sitting in the middle of it, crying your eyes out. You’re upset, and I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not the middle of it. It’s the other side, you silly.’ The dolorous maiden seemed obstinately addicted to nursery compliments. ‘Beyond those dead trees there’s the park. And after that there’s our house, which is called Drool Court. My name’s Cherry Chitfield.’ The maiden paused on this. ‘Worse luck,’ she added gloomily.

‘I’m Sir John Appleby, and I live at a place called Long Dream not a hundred miles from here.’ Appleby was reflecting that the name of Drool Court rang some faint bell in his head. The Chitfields were probably among the innumerable persons of local consequence known to Judith from her earliest years, but whom he himself could never securely fix in his memory. ‘If that dress,’ he went on, ‘comes out of what you call the wardrobe, then I don’t think your father deserves to be reproached at all. It must be a good wardrobe. For the dress is an extremely becoming one.’

‘That’s why I did agree just to try it on.’ Miss Chitfield was visibly mollified by this deft turn given to the conversation. ‘But then it came over me again. I don’t
want
to be a princess saved from an enchanter. And Tibby doesn’t want it that way, either.’

‘Is Tibby your brother?’ Appleby asked innocently.

‘Tibby is
not
my brother.’ Miss Chitfield stamped her foot again. ‘My brother is Mark, and he’s quite horrid. Tibby is a friend of mine, and he’s to do the rescuing. But we both think it’s silly. At least I do, and Tibby agrees with me.’ Cherry paused, as if to lend emphasis to this material distinction. ‘I want to be a girl just like I am – or almost just like I am – and to be carried off by a sheik.’

‘With Tibby as the sheik?’

‘Yes, of course. Only my father won’t allow it. He insists on the princess thing, with me in this dress, and Tibby wrapped around in a lot of tin, as if he was some sardines. Why can’t I have my own way?’

‘That’s a question, Miss Chitfield, we all frequently ask. But what the answer is in this particular case, I just don’t know. Perhaps it is more decorous for a young woman to be rescued from an enchanter by a knight than to be made the lawless prey of a passionate bedouin. Might that be it?’

‘I suppose it might. But it doesn’t really sound like my father.’

‘Then another explanation must be found.’ Appleby, who was intolerant even of small obscurities, uttered this with a conviction he was to remember.

‘Of course I know that being carried off and ravished by an Arab warrior is frightfully old-hat,’ Miss Chitfield went on. ‘It happened in Victorian novels by people like Trollope and Jane Austen. Not that anybody reads
them
now.’

‘Some demonstrably do not. However, I agree with you that the theme of the desert lover is a shade
passé
. But just what are we talking about? Is it some species of charades or private theatricals?’

‘I think it’s a fête, really.’ Cherry, who was now perfectly disposed to conversation, had sat down on the grass again. ‘I say, you don’t happen to be carrying any chocolate, do you? I’ve missed tea, and I’m getting a bit hungry.’

‘I’m afraid not, although I think there are some biscuits in the car. Unfortunately it’s rather a long way off.’

‘Never mind. I’ll just have one of your cigarettes.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not provided with cigarettes, either. I do apologize.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Cherry had glanced rather suspiciously at Appleby. ‘I’m a bit thirsty too, as a matter of fact. But I don’t like the look of this pool.’

‘Neither do I. You must expect a certain effect of dehydration, Miss Chitfield, after shedding all those tears.’

‘Sarky, aren’t you?’ It was quite amiably that Cherry said this. ‘But it’s a kind of fête, as I was saying. And with a pageant. Or with some mini-pageants, really.’

‘I see. And the brush with the sheik was to be one of them?’

‘Yes – and now it’s this stupid knight-and-princess thing. But it’s a sort of fancy-dress garden party as well. That’s why my father has got in all that stuff. Anybody who doesn’t want to bother beforehand can hire a costume for an extra five pounds.’

‘Dear me! You must move in affluent circles, Miss Chitfield.’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘And does Tibby?’

‘No, he doesn’t. That’s part of the trouble, I suppose.’

‘He can be trusted as a knight, but not as a sheik?’

‘I suppose so. It sounds very illogical.’

‘It does, indeed. When is this happening?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘And is it a private affair?’

‘Of course not.’ Miss Chitfield sounded surprised. ‘You can buy a ticket in Odger’s shop in Linger, and various other places. It’s all in aid of a charity, you see. Fallen women or Retired governesses or Conservative Party funds – I’ve forgotten which. We have something of the sort every year – only this time it seems a bigger effort than usual. Mark – that’s my brother I told you of – says it’s going to be most exquisitely vulgar.’

‘I don’t see that it need be that, Miss Chitfield. But perhaps it sounds a little on the lavish side.’

‘My father has to be lavish, or people would lose confidence in him and we’d all be put in jail. Or so Mark says.’

‘Dear me! Does your father have what may be called a walk in life?’

‘He’s a financier, if that’s what you mean. And a property developer. Mark says property-developing is a dirty word and quite right too.’

‘Your brother would appear to be a severe moralist.’ Appleby, who had dropped companionably down beside Miss Chitfield for a few minutes, got to his feet again. ‘I must be on my way,’ he said. ‘But I leave you my best wishes for the fête. I hope you manage to enjoy it, even if you do have to be a mere mediaeval princess.’

‘I’ll die first!’ Miss Chitfield announced this melodramatic fact with considerable passion.

‘My dear child’ – Appleby was really curious – ‘have you made a first rate family fuss about this piece of nonsense?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘But your father is adamant?’

‘Yes.’ Cherry Chitfield got to her feet too. ‘You will come, won’t you?’ she asked.

‘With a ticket from Odger’s shop?’ The girl’s sudden demand had astonished Appleby. ‘I’m really afraid–’

‘Oh, I can smuggle you in. Not that it looks to me as if a flyer would be beyond you.’

‘I suppose it wouldn’t – in a good cause.’ Appleby was embarrassed by this urgency. ‘But, as it happens, tomorrow–’

‘I know who you are.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘When you said Long Dream I remembered what Mark had told me about the Applebys there. You’re a famous policeman.’

‘I’ve certainly been a policeman in my time. But is it because I’m a policeman–’

‘Do come,’ Cherry Chitfield said.

Appleby had been a little late for dinner, after all, and was obliged to give an account of himself.

‘And you say she was quite grown up?’ Judith asked.

‘Well, yes – in a sense. Eighteen or nineteen, perhaps. But scarcely what one might call a mature personality.’

‘Evidently not. A girl of that age indulging in extravagant grief at being forbidden to indulge in one rather than another very similar bit of play-acting is surely quite absurd? You do seem to have come across somebody uncommonly foolish, John.’

‘Well, perhaps so – although I’m not quite convinced of it. But certainly she was a young person not claiming to be flawlessly well-bred. I rather felt you’d be likely to know about the Chitfields of Drool Court. But, on consideration, I don’t expect you do.’

‘Of course I know
of
them. But I just don’t happen to
know
them, any more than you do.’

‘They’re no further off than a good many people we do know. Who would be on visiting terms with them?’

‘I suppose the Birch-Blackies are likely to be.’ Judith seemed surprised at this inquisition. ‘Ambrose has to know everybody, because of the constituency. And Jane is a ceaselessly inquisitive woman.’

‘So she is. So these Chitfields aren’t immemorial ornaments of that remote part of the county?’

‘I’ve no idea. They certainly weren’t at Drool Court when I was a girl. I expect you’d find they’d arrived quite recently. This pageant affair sounds a pushing sort of thing. You make a big noise in aid of some charity or other, and people feel they must look in on it, and pay up, and generally acknowledge your existence. But if this Mr Chitfield simply sent the charity a cheque for the amount he’s willing to lay out in mounting his show, then quite probably–’

‘Yes, of course. I expect Mark Chitfield – the brother this girl talked about – says much the same thing to his father. He appears to be of a censorious turn of mind, too.’

‘I’m not being censorious, John. I’m merely mentioning some unimportant but tedious facts of English social life. But of course I may be quite wrong about those Chitfields.’