Lord Mullion's Secret (5 page)

A wayfarer hove into view. He was approaching with a gait that suggested (if this be conceivable) resignation tempered by mild grievance, and he was not to be mistaken for other than gentry. He might have been about ages with Lord Mullion (whom Swithin thought of as distinctly elderly) and he was dressed in country clothes of the sort that indefinably suggest the townee. (Or so Swithin, who cultivated social perceptions inappropriate to his station, sagely opined.)

The stranger drew near, hesitated, and came to a halt. He studied Swithin. At least Swithin felt it to be that, although the glance was in fact entirely momentary. It was – the young man somewhat confusedly felt – as if here was somebody with a trained eye of an unusual sort.

‘Good morning,' the stranger said – and it was to be observed that his mild pedestrianism had put him slightly out of breath. ‘Is it possible that I am speaking to Lord Wyndowe?'

‘I'm not Lord Wyndowe. I'm one of the under-gardeners.' Swithin managed to provide this correction in a wholly composed manner, although he thought the question addressed to him excessively odd. Then he suddenly realized what must have occasioned it. Here he was, virtually within the purlieus of Mullion Castle, carrying a tennis racket and pretty well swathed in garments tagged all over with miscellaneous armorial emblazonments. He had, in fact, been sailing along under false colours. His first impulse was to explain to the stranger how this state of affairs had come about. But he resisted this – it is to be feared for no better reason than that it was more fun to leave the mystery momentarily unresolved. ‘Can I help you in any way?' he asked. The stranger took this further perplexity (since the idiom was not quite a gardener's, whether under or otherwise) commendably in his stride.

‘I don't want to be a nuisance,' he said. ‘But the fact is that I've done something uncommonly stupid: run out of petrol the better part of a mile back. Can you tell me how far I am from Mullion Castle now?'

‘Not all that far, sir. The gates are only a couple of hundred yards ahead of you. And then there's the drive through the park, which is just under half a mile.'

‘Well, that's not too bad.' The stranger didn't seem to feel that it was too good either. ‘I said I'd arrive in time for luncheon, and it seems uncivil to be late.'

‘I could go ahead at the double, sir. It's really rather a nice run. I'd explain things. If you were to mention your name.'

‘It's Charles Honeybath. I–'

‘Mine's Swithin Gore.'

‘How do you do?' Mr Honeybath said this instantly. ‘But, no – I couldn't possibly trouble you in that way. If there were some petrol around, and I could be driven back with it to my car–'

‘Is the key in the ignition?' It didn't seem to Swithin that the elderly Mr Honeybath was being too clear-headed.

‘Yes, it is.'

‘Then much better walk straight on to the castle, sir, and leave things to me. I think I can get hold of some petrol, and bring the car up to the castle not all that long after your own arrival. I do drive. I've driven his lordship's Rolls from time to time.' Swithin, who had his naive side, added this particular with some satisfaction. ‘And you'd better start off at once, sir. I'm afraid it's going to rain rather heavily quite soon.'

‘So it is.' Mr Honeybath glanced up at the heavens apprehensively. ‘And it's uncommonly kind of you.' Mr Honeybath's hand moved towards a pocket, and then came away again. Swithin detected and approved this second thought. He didn't propose to be tipped by Mr Honeybath, either now or later. Payment for the petrol was one thing, and he'd make sure of collecting it. Accepting the price of a couple of drinks in return for giving an old buffer a helping hand was quite another. And now he hastened the old buffer on his way, and went about the business of retrieving his car. First Lord Wyndowe's tennis gear and now this visitor's stranded bus. He was doing the right thing about both of them, he told himself, like the model little lackey he was. He wondered, darkly, if Lord Mullion's elder daughter saw him that way.

 

 

An obliging young man, Charles Honeybath told himself as he walked on towards Mullion Castle. When explaining the manner of his arrival to his host and hostess he would not omit to express his sense of this strongly. For it must be said in general that disobligingness was abroad in the land, so that conduct of a contrary character deserved to be marked. It was true that the under-gardener called Swithin – an attractive name – had been amused as well as polite. But this was fair enough in face of that rash assumption that here had been Henry's son Cyprian. Moreover, stranded motorists are always for some reason mildly laughable, just as are equestrians who have tumbled off a horse. Honeybath imagined that upon socially appropriate occasions young Swithin might reveal a mildly satirical bent. It was possible that his mind was a little too lively for his job.

It suddenly became apparent that the lad was at least a good meteorologist. The rain was falling. In fact it might be said by a person of literary bent that the heavens had opened. And there was no shelter in sight. Along the hedgerow, indeed, there was a scattering of stately elms. But as these were all dead they were unlikely to afford much protection.

Honeybath hastened forward. The village of Mullion, he vaguely believed, lay some way ahead. But he must now be quite close to the entrance to the castle's drive, and there would probably be a lodge in which he could seek refuge for a time. If the rain were to prove continuous he could even remain there until Swithin turned up with his car. It looked as if Swithin's obliging disposition was going to earn him a good soaking at the start.

Honeybath became aware that there was, after all, a building in sight. It lay behind a high wall which had suddenly appeared on his right hand, so that its character was not immediately apparent. Honeybath was still in doubt about this when a head appeared above the wall and he found himself being addressed by a venerable clergyman.

‘My dear sir,' the venerable clergyman said, ‘can I not prevail upon you to enter the church?'

‘Thank you. You are very kind.'

‘Not at all. It is an invitation, alas, which I am well accustomed to addressing to those who ought to regard themselves as my parishioners. And now here I am – calling out, it may be said, in the highways and byways. Pray hasten, before you are soaked to the skin. There is an entrance, or better an aperture, only a few yards ahead. Strait is the gate, so far as our local people are concerned. The most imposing access to the churchyard is from the direction of the castle, naturally enough.'

Honeybath, not much regarding the element of chit-chat in this, hurried on and found the aperture. Within seconds he was inside the church itself. It was crepuscular and diminutive, the latter attribute being accented by the presence of a great deal of monumental and funerary sculpture of the more massive sort. He was incongruously reminded, indeed, of a doll's house lavishly equipped with furniture a size too large for it. But at least it was shelter, and Honeybath hastened to express his gratitude for this and to explain himself.

‘A shocking downpour,' he then said. ‘It was predicted by a young man who has now very kindly gone in search of petrol for me. I jumped to the rash conclusion that he must be Lord Mullion's son, but he proved to be one of the gardeners, and told me his name was Gore.'

‘Ah, yes – Swithin Gore. I saw him myself only a little time ago, and he was good enough to wave to me.' The clergyman, who appeared to find this an amusing circumstance, glanced at Honeybath thoughtfully. ‘You are on your way to the castle, sir?'

‘I am on my way to stay there. But my immediate idea was to get as far as the drive and seek refuge in the lodge.'

‘An idle thought, I fear. The lodge is empty and boarded up. The rich man is still in his castle, I am happy to say. But the poor man is no longer at his gate.
Tempora
mutantur
,
et nos mutamur in illis
. May I mention that my name is Atlay? I am the incumbent.'

‘How do you do? Honeybath is my name.'

‘Ah, indeed!' Dr Atlay's features registered a kind of magisterial pleasure. ‘I might have supposed it to be so, Mr Honeybath. Lord Mullion has mentioned to me that you were coming down. And upon what occasion. An excellent idea upon Mullion's part – as I told him at once. Nobody could do better justice to his wife than yourself, if I may venture a mere amateur's judgement upon such matters.'

‘Thank you very much.' Honeybath didn't manage to say this particularly gratefully, since the receiving of formal compliments invariably irritated him. ‘I don't know Lady Mullion very well, but she appears to be an admirable woman.'

‘She is so, indeed – although not quite sound, I am sorry to say, upon the grand principle of subordination. It comes of belonging to a ducal house. Dukes are very odd fish, Mr Honeybath, as you have no doubt had abundant occasion to remark. Particularly when they are Whigs, as most of them are. Indeed, Mullion made a venturesome marriage, and I am inclined to regard as a matter of special dispensation by the Divine Providence the fact that it has been a happy one. There are two delightful daughters.'

‘And a son, of course.'

‘And, indeed, a son. I fear the rain is becoming, if anything, heavier.' Dr Atlay had paused to open the south door of the church and peer out. Hung on the door was a notice – addressed perhaps to the faithful or perhaps to casual gazers – saying
Please
keep closed to conserve heat
, although in fact there was no visible provision for providing anything of the kind. ‘However,' Dr Atlay continued, ‘you and I are quite snug for the moment, Mr Honeybath. It is true that the church is somewhat tenebrous and even speluncar in suggestion, a state of affairs attributable to the opaque quality achieved by Victorian stained glass – of which, I may say, we owe our abundance to the generosity of the eleventh earl. However, to his successor we owe similarly the repair of the roof, which is now watertight. So if light be excluded so, too, is the rage of the elements. You and I, my dear sir, may consider ourselves as cosily accommodated as Aeneas and Dido in their cavern.'

‘Yes, indeed.' Honeybath was a little surprised by this pagan – and somewhat scandalous – comparison, which was no doubt to be attributed to the vicar's orthodox classical education. ‘Are all those monuments and effigies,' he asked, ‘connected with the Wyndowe family?'

‘Assuredly they are – except, of course, that a number of my own predecessors are suitably commemorated on unobtrusive tablets in the chancel. The first Wyndowes, you will recall, were no more than knights of the shire, and the first whose sepulture is recorded here is Sir Rufus Windy. His is the figure on your right hand, with his nose broken off.'

Honeybath surveyed Sir Rufus with proper respect – but what he was then prompted to say was not untouched by levity.

‘It has always struck me as odd, Dr Atlay, that in this matter of Christian burial it is the upper classes who enjoy God's chilly benediction, while their inferiors in this transitory state are out in the warm sun.'

‘Ah!' If Dr Atlay was put momentarily to stand by this he recovered quickly. ‘I do not recall that Shakespeare's application of the old saw is precisely to that effect. But you are, of course, perfectly right. The rude forefathers of the hamlet are out in the churchyard and certainly exposed to the elements – sun, wind and rain alike. However, that grand principle of subordination is involved. Are you familiar with the sermons of William Gilpin, as you doubtless are with his
Observations relative chiefly to picturesque beauty in the mountains and lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland?
'

‘I do know Gilpin on the Picturesque. He holds an important position – does he not? – in the history of English taste.' Honeybath felt that with Dr Atlay in learned vein it was necessary to put one's best foot forward. ‘But his sermons, I am afraid, have escaped me.'

‘They were published, I believe I am right in saying, in several volumes between 1799 and 1804. And in one of them he remarks that subordination pervades all the works of God. It is a profound truth not much regarded by modern theologians, I am sorry to conclude.'

Honeybath began to regret that he had accepted sanctuary as he had done. Had he walked on to the lodge, shut up though it might be, he could at least have cowered under its eaves until the arrival of Swithin in his car. As Swithin would now drive past the church unregarding, it looked to Honeybath as though he were booked to enjoy Dr Atlay's company until the tempest abated. Nor did he judge the topic upon which they had fallen particularly congenial. In an effort to find an alternative he now looked carefully round the gloomy little church. A number of its tombs and monuments, he felt, could be made to serve very tolerably as conversation pieces in the modern sense of the term. So he did his best to respond to such observations as were offered to him.

‘As you will see,' Dr Atlay said, ‘we are particularly rich in monumental work of the Elizabethan period. May I ask if it is a special interest of yours?'

‘It is, indeed – but chiefly in the painting of the period, as you may imagine. And I am much looking forward to seeing the Mullion Hilliards. But dear me!' Honeybath had broken off, and was pointing to an ornate affair in the north aisle. ‘Nollekens, surely? It can't be by anybody else.'

‘Certainly Nollekens, and among the most distinguished of his works. Or so I have been told, although I must defer to your professional opinion, my dear sir. The reclining figure in classical drapery is, of course, a Countess of Mullion, and the medallion to which she points with upraised arm and extended index finger is naturally of her husband, the Earl. The weeping cherubs are much admired by our visitors. Remark how delicately their very tears are registered on the marble.'