Ellis Peters - George Felse 04 - A Nice Derangement of Epitaphs (2 page)

Dominic hesitated, half afraid that this might more properly be the time for him to disappear, but deeply unwilling to do so if he could gracefully remain. At eighteen years and one week he held the optimistic view that you can never know too many people or accumulate too many friends; and the success of a holiday depends on what you find for yourself on the spot, not what you bring with you.

“Well—if I shan’t be in the way? I mean—I don’t think Paddy particularly wants to come home with a lifeguard attached. Won’t his people—?” It was a long time since he’d been Paddy’s age, but with a heroic effort of the imagination he could still put himself in the other fellow’s place.

“Now that’s thoughtful of you, but take it from me, Dominic, this is one ego that needs no tenderness from you or anyone.” He took Paddy by the nape of the neck and propelled him briskly towards the rising path that led up through the dunes towards the stubble-fields. “Come on, no argument!” He took Dominic, surprisingly but with absolute confidence, by the neck with the other hand, and hustled them into a trot. He was a man who could do things like that, and not only get away with it, but get himself liked for it, where someone less adept would have given electrifying offence.

“What about Paddy’s clothes?”

“Oh, he came down from home in his trunks. Always does. First thing in the morning, and again in the afternoon. I told you, his parents gave birth to a herring. Come on, run for it!”

And they ran, glad to warm themselves with exercise; across the undulating coastal road, and through the hollow lane to the gate of Pentarno farm. A deep hollow of trees, startlingly lush and beautiful as always wherever there was shelter in this wild and sea-swept land, enfolded the solid grey stone house and the modern farm buildings.

“I don’t live here,” explained Simon as he opened the gate. “I’m just a long-standing nuisance from Tim’s schooldays, that turns up from time to time and makes itself at home.”

The front door stood open on a long, low, farmhouse hall, populous with doors. At the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor one of the doors flew open, and Philippa Rossall leaned out, in denims and a frilly pinafore, her arms flour to the elbow.

“Well, about time! I thought I should have to start ’phoning the hospitals. When you two quit showing up for
meals
—”

She broke off there, grey eyes opening wide, because there were not two of them, but three. She was middle-sized, and middling-pretty, and medium about everything, except that all the lines of her face were shaped for laughter. She had a mane of dark hair, and lopsided eyebrows that gave her an amused look even in repose, and a smile that warmed the house.

“Oh, I didn’t realise we had company. Hallo!” She took in suddenly their wet and tangled hair, and the way their clothes clung to them, and swung for an instant between astonishment and alarm, but beholding them all intact and apparently composed, rejected both in favour of amusement. “Well!” she said. “Never a dull moment with Simon Towne around. What have you all been doing? Diving off the pier for pennies? No, never mind, whatever you’ve been up to, go and get out of those clothes first, while I get my baking in and make another pot of tea. And be careful how you turn on the shower, the water’s very hot. Simon, find him some of your clothes and take care of him, there’s a lamb. Tim isn’t in from the cows yet.”

Tim came in at that moment by the back door, a large, broad, tranquil person with a sceptical face and guileless eyes, attired in a sloppy, hand-knitted sweater and corduroys.

“Bodies, actually,” said Simon. “Off the point.”

“Eh?” said Tim dubiously, brought up short against this cryptic pronouncement.

“Phil asked if we’d been diving for pennies off the pier. And I said, no, bodies. Off the point. But we didn’t find any. This is Dominic Felse, by the way. Dominic’s staying up at the Dragon. He was kind enough to fish Paddy out of the sea when he was in difficulties. Paddy says he wasn’t in difficulties, but Dominic fished him out, anyhow. So we brought him back to tea.”

“Good!” said Philippa, with such large acceptance that there was no guessing whether she meant to express gratification at having her offspring rescued from the Atlantic, or receiving an unexpected guest to tea. The look she gave Dominic was considerably more communicative, if he had not been too dazed to notice it.

“He fetched me a clip on the ear, too,” volunteered Paddy, who would certainly not have mentioned this circumstance if he had not already forgiven it, and resolved to complete the removal of the smart by exorcism.

“Good!” said Tim. “Somebody should, every now and again. We’re much obliged to you, Dominic. Stick around, if you enjoyed it—there may be other occasions.”

The first, and brief, silence, which it must certainly have been Dominic’s turn to fill, found him speechless, and drew all their eyes upon him in understanding sympathy. It appeared that the Rossall brand of verbal table-tennis had taken at a disadvantage this slender and serious young man who didn’t yet know the rules.

“It’s always this kind of a madhouse here,” Paddy told him kindly. “You’ll get used to it. Just muck in and take everything for granted, it’s the only way.”

But it seemed that was not the trouble. Dominic had not even heard all the latter part of the conversation, and he did not hear this. He looked from Simon to Phil, and back to Simon again, and his eyes were shining.

“You did say
Simon Towne
? Really? You mean—
the
Simon Towne?”

“Heaven help us!” said Phil Rossall devoutly. “There surely can’t be
two
?”

Dominic rushed up the stairs of the Dragon Hotel just after half-past seven, made a ten-minute business of changing, and tapped at his parents’ door. Bunty, who had been struggling with the back zipper of her best dress, relaxed with a sigh of relief, and called him in.

“Just in time, darling! Come and do me up.”

It was convenient to have him there at her shoulder, where she could watch him in the mirror without being herself watched, or observed to be watching. For the dark suit had surprised her. He was no fonder of dressing up, as a general rule, than his father. The look of restrained satisfaction which surveyed the sleek fit of the gold silk sheath over her shoulders, and the pleased pat he bestowed on her almost unconsciously as he closed the last inch of zipper, confirmed what the dark suit and the austere tie had suggested. Apparently she’d done the right thing. He was studying the total effect now with deep thoughtfulness. One more minute, and he’d have his fingers in her trinket-case, or be criticising her hair-style. Something was on for tonight; something she didn’t yet know about. But by the mute, half-suppressed excitement of his face she soon would. Provided, of course, that she didn’t ask.

“I was wondering where you’d got to. You must have walked a long way.”

“Well, no, actually I never got very far. Something happened.”

“Something nice?”

“Yes and no. Not really, I suppose But then, I don’t think there ever was anyone there in the water, I think he just spotted some bit of flotsam. And then I had tea with some people I met.” That had been nice, at any rate; he shone secretly at the remembrance, and with difficulty contained his own radiance. A girl? Bunty didn’t think so, somehow. When remembering and containing encounters with girls he wore another face, conscientiously sophisticated and a little smug. This, though it strove after a man-of-the-world detachment, was the rapt face of a second-former noticed by the skipper of the First Fifteen.

He perched suddenly on the end of the dressing-table stool beside her, and put his arm round her, half to sustain his position, half in the old gambit that made confidences easy. The two faces, cheek to cheek in the mirror, were almost absurdly alike, oval, fair-complexioned, with freckled noses and large, bright hazel eyes. The two thick thatches of chestnut hair—She turned, nostrils quivering to the faint, damp scent, and put up a hand to feel at his forelock.

“Hmm! I see there was at least one someone there in the water. I didn’t know you even took your trunks with you.”

“I didn’t, love! Look, I’ll tell you!” But he’d do it his own way. He tightened his arm round her waist. The brightness was beginning to burst through. “Mummy, do you know who’s staying in Maymouth?”

“Yes, darling, the distinguished Midshire C.I.D. man, Detective-Inspector George Felse, with his beautiful wife, and handsome and brilliant son.” And the said George was already down in the bar, waiting for his family to join him for dinner; and the only concession he had made to the evening was to add a silk scarf to his open-necked shirt. Whereas it looked as if Dominic had everything lined up for a very special impression. She wondered if there’d be time to get George into a suit, and whether she owed it to Dominic to demand such a sacrifice of his father.

“Mummy, you said it! You look gorgeous. How about those black crystals? They’d go beautifully with this dress.”

He had his fingers in among the few bits of finery she’d brought with her, fishing for the necklace he approved. “Keep still. No, but really, Mummy, do you know who’s here? Not in the hotel, staying with some friends of his at the farm over at Pentarno.
Simon Towne
!”

She opened her eyes wide at the gleaming, triumphant face in the mirror. “No! Is he,
really
?” Now who on earth, she wondered for a moment, could Simon Towne be? This was a difficult game to play unless you had at least an inkling. Or, of course, there was always the deflationary play. The dead-pan face, the sudden flat, honest voice: “Who’s Simon Towne?”

“Mummy, you shameless humbug! You were keener even than I was on those articles he did on Harappa and Mohenjo-daro. And that book on ancient and modern Peru—remember? Simon Towne is just about the most celebrated roving freelance journalist and broadcaster in the world, that’s who Simon Towne is. As you very well know! And he’s staying with the Rossalls at Pentarno until he sets off on another round-the-world commission in October. And I met him this afternoon!”

And I’m going to meet him to-night, thought Bunty with certainty; that’s what all the fancy-work is for.

She took her exalted son by the arm and sat him firmly down beside her again. “You tell me every word about it, quickly.”

He told her, and she paid him generously in reflected joy, and had no difficulty in appearing duly impressed; even
was
a little impressed. Yes, George would have to suffer; they couldn’t let Dominic down. Meantime, she had to get downstairs ahead of him. It wasn’t difficult; he’d given her enough clues.

“Sorry, Dom, I’ve mussed your hair a little. It’s a bit fluffy from being wet so recently. Use George’s cream. He left it in the bathroom, I think.”

He went like a lamb. She called after him: “I’m going down, I’ll be in the bar.” And fled. He’d be five minutes re-settling his crest to his satisfaction.

George was on a stool at the bar, leaning on his elbow; long and easy and thin, and physically rather elegant in his heedless fashion, but not dressed for a momentous meeting. Actually Bunty preferred him as he was, but a gesture was called for.

She dug a hard little finger into his ribs from behind, and said softly and rapidly into his ear: “Collar and tie and suit, my boy, and hurry. Dom’s captured a lion, and I think he’s bringing the whole pride in to coffee, or something.”

George turned a face not yet shocked out of its comfortable languor. “Don’t be funny, girl, it’s nearly eight o’clock. There isn’t time. Even if I could be bribed to do it. I’m on holiday, remember?”

“So’s Dom, and I tell you he’s just aching to be proud of us. Just once won’t hurt you. Look at me!”

George did, and smiled. “You look good enough to eat.” He swivelled reluctantly on the stool. “Oh, all right, I’ll do it. But I won’t perform.”

“You won’t get the chance, Dom will be straight man to the lion, and the rest of us will be the audience. Go on,
quickly
! He’s coming!”

George unfolded his long legs, looked at his watch, and shot away in time to meet Dominic in the doorway. “Lord, I’ve left it late to change. Got talking to Sam, and never noticed the time. Go keep your mother company, I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

Dominic, with a face of extreme maturity and dignity, wound his way between the tables to the bar, and perched himself without a word on the stool next to Bunty’s. She gave him a sweet, wide look which never wavered before his severe stare. Behind the bar Sam Shubrough lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.

“Manzanilla, please,” said Dominic austerely, and slid an uneasy hazel glance sideways at his mother. She hadn’t giggled; she hadn’t made a sound or turned a hair, but the effect was the same. He had been eighteen for such a short time that he hadn’t mastered his face yet on these occasions.

“It’s all right, lamb,” she said in his ear wickedly, “you’re doing fine. You don’t blush any more. But you haven’t
quite
got over that tendency to a brazen stare yet.”

“Thanks for the tip, I’ll practise in front of a mirror. All right, Mum-Machiavelli,” he said darkly. “You needn’t think I don’t know what a clever minx you are, because I do. Which tie did you tell him to put on?”

“Anything you want to know about Maymouth and environs,” said Tim Rossall, over coffee in the lounge,“just ask that well-known authority, Simon here. He’s never been down here for more than three days at a time, not until this visit, but what he doesn’t know about the place and its history by now isn’t worth knowing. No, I mean it! He made a big hit with my Aunt Rachel, and she’s given him the run of her library up there at the Place.”

“The Place? That’s Treverra Place? That big pile with the towers, at the top end of Maymouth?”

“That’s it. Phoney towers, actually, they built ’em on late in the nineteenth century. The old girl rattles round in that huge dump like a pea in a drum, but she’s still got the money to keep it up, and nobody else has. When she goes the National Trust will have to take it, or else it’ll simply have to fall down.”

“The National Trust wouldn’t touch the place,” said Phil cheerfully. “Tim’s mother was Miss Rachel’s younger sister. He’s the last nephew, and he’s horribly afraid she’ll leave the house to him. There’s a fine kitchen garden, though. She grows splendid apricots—a bit late ripening, but a lovely flavour. They’ll be ready any day now, I must get her to send you some. “