Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh

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      ‘Oh, well,’ she generalized, ‘you’ve done everything you can, Mrs Jim.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘I’m going over there on Saturday.’

      After a fractional pause Mrs Jim said, ‘Are you, miss? That’s very kind of you, I’m sure,’ and switched on the vacuum-cleaner. ‘You’ll be able to see for yourself,’ she shouted above the din.

      Verity nodded and returned to the study. But what? she wondered. What shall I be able to see?

      V

      Gideon’s super restaurant turned out to be within six miles of Greengages. It seemed to be some sort of club of which he was a member and was of an exalted character with every kind of discreet attention and very good food. Verity seldom lunched at this level and she enjoyed herself. For the first time she wondered what Gideon’s occupation in life might be. She also remembered that Prunella was something of a partie.

      At half past two they arrived at Greengages. It was a converted Edwardian mansion approached by an avenue, sheltered by a stand of conifers and surrounded by ample lawns in which flower-beds had been cut like graves.

      There were a number of residents strolling about with visitors or sitting under brilliant umbrellas on exterior furnishers’ contraptions.

      ‘She does know we’re coming, doesn’t she?’ Verity asked. She had begun to feel apprehensive.

      ‘You and me, she knows,’ said Prunella. ‘I didn’t mention Gideon. Actually.’

      ‘Oh, Prue!’

      ‘I thought you might sort of ease him in,’ Prue whispered.

      ‘I really don’t think –’

      ‘Nor do I,’ said Gideon. ‘Darling, why can’t we just –’

      ‘There she is!’ cried Verity. ‘Over there beyond the calceolarias and lobelia under an orange brolly. She’s waving. She’s seen us.’

      ‘Godma V, please. Gideon and I’ll sit in the car and when you wave we’ll come. Please.’

      Verity thought, I’ve eaten their astronomical luncheon and drunk their champagne so now I turn plug-ugly and refuse? ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but don’t blame me if it goes haywire.’

      She set off across the lawn.

      Nobody has invented a really satisfactory technique for the gradual approach of people who have already exchanged greetings from afar. Continue to grin while a grin dwindles into a grimace? Assume a sudden absorption in the surroundings? Make as if sunk in meditation? Break into a joyous canter? Shout? Whistle? Burst, even, into song?

      Verity tried none of these methods. She walked fast and when she got within hailing distance cried, ‘There you are!’

      Sybil had the advantage in so far as she wore enormous dark sunglasses. She waved and smiled and pointed, as if in mock astonishment or admiration at Verity and when she arrived extended her arms for an embrace.

      ‘Darling Verry!’ she cried. ‘You’ve come after all.’ She waved Verity into a canvas chair, seemed to gaze at her fixedly for an uneasy moment or two and then said with a change of voice, ‘Whose car’s that? Don’t tell me. It’s Gideon Markos’s. He’s driven you both over. You needn’t say anything. They’re engaged!’

      This, in a way, was a relief. Verity, for once, was pleased by Sybil’s prescience. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘they are. And honestly, Syb, there doesn’t seem to me to be anything against it.’

      ‘In that case,’ said Sybil, all cordiality spent, ‘why are they going on like this? Skulking in the car and sending you to soften me up. If you call that the behaviour of a civilized young man! Prue would never be like that on her own initiative. He’s persuaded her.’

      ‘The boot’s on the other foot. He was all for tackling you himself.’

      ‘Cheek! Thick-skinned push. One knows where he got that from.’

      ‘Where?’

      ‘God knows.’

      ‘You’ve just said you do.’

      ‘Don’t quibble, darling,’ said Sybil.

      ‘I can’t make out what, apart from instinctive promptings, sets you against Gideon. He’s intelligent, eminently presentable, obviously rich –’

      ‘Yes, and where does it come from?’

      ‘– and, which is the only basically important bit, he seems to be a young man of good character and in love with Prue.’

      ‘John Swingletree’s devoted to her. Utterly devoted. And she was –’ Sybil boggled for a moment and then said loudly – ‘she was getting to be very fond of him.’

      ‘The Lord Swingletree, would that be?’

      ‘Yes, it would, and you needn’t say it like that.’

      ‘I’m not saying it like anything. Syb, they’re over there waiting to come to you. Do be kind. You won’t get anywhere by being anything else.’

      Sybil was silent for a moment and then said, ‘Do you know what I think? I think it’s a put-up job between him and his father. They want to get their hands on Quintern.’

      ‘Oh, my dear old Syb!’

      ‘All right. You wait. Just you wait.’

      This was said with all her old vigour and obstinacy and yet with a very slight drag, a kind of flatness in her utterance. Was it because of this that Verity had the impression that Sybil did not really mind all that much about her daughter’s engagement? There was an extraordinary suggestion of hesitancy and yet of suppressed excitement – almost of jubilation.

      The pampered little hand she raised to her sunglasses quivered. It removed the glasses and for Verity the afternoon turned cold.

      Sybil’s face was blankly smooth as if it had been ironed. It had no expression. Her great china-blue eyes really might have been those of a doll.

      ‘All right,’ she said. ‘On your own head be it. Let them come. I won’t make scenes. But I warn you I’ll never come round. Never.’

      A sudden wave of compassion visited Verity.

      ‘Would you rather wait a bit?’ she asked. ‘How are you, Syb? You haven’t told me. Are you better?’

      ‘Much, much better. Basil Schramm is fantastic. I’ve never had a doctor like him. Truly. He so understands. I expect,’ Sybil’s voice luxuriated, ‘he’ll be livid when he hears about this visit. He won’t let me be upset. I told him about Charmless Claude and he said I must on no account see him. He’s given orders. Verry, he’s quite fantastic,’ said Sybil. The warmth of these eulogies found no complementary expression in her face or voice. She wandered on, СКАЧАТЬ