‘I’ve
already told you, Kenneth, that I quite plainly instructed the car to be
outside waiting. The driver must have mistaken the address. If so, he will be
along in a minute or two.’
As
we went by, Widmerpool recognized us.
‘Have
you by any chance got a car? Our hired vehicle hasn’t
turned up. Leonard has made some sort of muddle. I suppose you couldn’t give us
a lift?’
‘We’re
on our way to pick up a taxi.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why
not do the same? They come down fairly frequently in the street behind here.’
‘Pam
doesn’t want to walk that far. Oh, hell and blast. Why must this have happened?’
Widmerpool
was not merely cross, put out by the car not being on time, but wrought up to
an extent almost resembling drunkenness. Drink, which he hardly touched as a
rule, was unlikely to have played any part in this highly strung state, unless,
quite exceptionally, he had felt the
Seraglio
an occasion to swallow a few glasses, more to impress others with his own
improved situation than because he enjoyed their effect. Apart from threat of
prosecution, he could have been suffering more than usual domestic strain,
Pamela’s design to leave him – if all alleged about Glober were true – now
suddenly put into reverse gear. Even if Widmerpool did not know the reason, her
change of plans, involvement with Gwinnett, might well have caused more than
usually uncomfortable repercussions at home. The fact that she would not walk
the few yards necessary to find a taxi showed her mood. Widmerpool stamped his
feet. Short addressed us in a more temperate manner.
‘If
you should see anything looking like a hired car waiting round the corner,
please ask the chauffeur if he’s booked in the name of Sir Leonard Short, will
you? He may have mistaken the address. If so, just send him along here.’
We
said we would do that.
‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
The
only answer was Short’s.
‘I
told you Lady Widmerpool was looking frightening,’ said Isobel.
‘Will
they wait there all night?’
‘I
think she’s planning something. That was how she looked to me.’
By
that time we had reached the main road. A taxi cruised by. So far as we were
both concerned, that closed the
Seraglio
evening.
As
with stories of Trapnel’s last hours, others in connexion with Gwinnett’s
decampment from the Bagshaws’, what followed, outside the Stevens house in
Regent’s Park, appeared afterwards in various versions. One hears about life,
all the time, from different people, with very different narrative gifts.
Accordingly, not only are many episodes, in which you may even have played a
part yourself, hard enough to assess; a lot more must be judged from haphazard
accounts given by others. Even if reported in good faith, some choose one
aspect on which to concentrate, some another. This truth, obvious enough, was
particularly applicable to the events following the
Seraglio
party. Even so, essential facts were
scarcely in question. My own informants were Moreland and Stevens.
There
was no irreplaceable divergence between these two accounts, although, when it
came to telling a story in which veracity had to be measured against
picturesque detail, neither could be called pedantically veracious; Moreland,
in this respect the more reliable, being, if the more imaginative, the one who
also best appreciated the graphic power of fact. Moreland talked about the
scene right up to the end. He never tired of it. There can be no doubt it
cheered his last months, added, as he himself said, to the richness of his own
experience. His powerful gift of creative imagery led him, over and over again,
to reconstruct the incidents, whenever anyone came to visit him.
Stevens,
in principle to be thought of as a type used to violent scenes, was in a sense
more taken by surprise, worse shocked, than Moreland. Marriage may have
enervated Stevens, accustomed him by then to sedate, well-behaved routines. The
rational, utilitarian, unruffled point of view, tempered with toughness, that
directed most of his life – had so directed it in the past – could mislead, as
well as stimulate. Like many persons who had enjoyed a comparatively
adventurous career, knocked about the world a good deal, he retained a strain
of naivety, naivety penetrating just the areas of the mind which, in Moreland’s
case, were quite free from any such inhibition. Indeed, Moreland used to
complain himself that ‘naivety in short supply’ could be a disadvantage in
practising the arts, where it is often necessary to see one thing only, that
particular thing with supreme clarity. In fact, when it came to giving a
convincing description of what took place that night, the details Stevens
produced, except for a few useful appendices, were little more than
confirmation of Moreland’s epic account. Stevens himself excused the
scrappiness of his own narration.
‘It
was so bloody dark, and I was worrying all the time about getting Hugh home,
before he had another fit, or whatever it was.’
The
Stevens garage was in a mews behind the house. When Stevens drove the car back
towards his own front door, he noticed figures talking together a few yards up
the terrace. He did not identify them, merely supposing they were guests having
a final musical dispute before parting on their separate ways. Moreland, Audrey
Maclintick, several others, were by then chatting with Rosie in the hall,
Moreland having become so restless lying on the sofa that it seemed best to
come downstairs to wait for the car. There they found Mrs Erdleigh, Stripling,
Glober, Polly Duport, all about to leave. Moreland at once recognized the
potentialities of Mrs Erdleigh, whom he had not met earlier that evening.
Within a matter of minutes – as he himself admitted – they were discussing
together the magical writings of Cornelius Agrippa. Moreland and Mrs Erdleigh
had already reached the book of Abramelin the Mage, spells for surrounding an
enemy with a vision of trellis-work, others for causing the Pope to fall in
love with you, when Stevens came up the steps. Meanwhile Glober and Stripling
had returned to vintage cars.
‘Now
we’ll take a look at the Bentley, Mr Stripling. My automobile’s parked at the
end of the block.’
Stripling
must already have obtained permission from Mrs Erdleigh to inspect the Bentley
before restoring her to whatever witch’s lair she inhabited, but there is some
uncertainty as to how exactly the outgoing party came on the Widmerpools and
Short, still hanging about in the terrace, waiting for their car. It seems
possible that Moreland refused to enter the Stevens car before he had finished
his occult conversation with Mrs Erdleigh. Alternatively, his interest by now
aroused in vintage cars, he too could have wanted to inspect Glober’s vehicle.
Moreland seems to have been strolling with Mrs Erdleigh; Stevens and Audrey
Maclintick behind; Stripling, Glober, Polly Duport, a short way ahead. The talk
of cars may have been carried to the ears of Short, who (having made contact
with Glober at supper on the subject of the French political situation vis-à-vis
Algeria) now repeated a request for a ‘lift’. Polly Duport was alleged to have
thrown back a comment to the effect that the ’31 Bentley was the ‘size of a bus’,
thereby raising Short’s hopes. Another possibility is that Pamela had intended
that something of this sort should happen. She had been waiting for a chance
that had not arisen at the party. She could hardly have foreseen the lateness
of the hired car, but might have grasped that Glober, still in the Stevens
house, was bound sooner or later to pass that way. Short, having no reason to connect
Glober with the Widmerpools, stepped forward, and made a little speech.
‘If
your car is really so commodious, Mr Glober, I wonder whether you could include
in it a party of three – for our own hired vehicle does not seem to have turned
up. It would be too kind were you able to manage that good office. We all live
in the Westminster direction, if you happened to be going that way. It ill
becomes a native of this country to seek transport from a transatlantic
visitor, guest to our shores, but, not for the first time in recent years, we
must needs throw ourselves upon the goodwill of American resources.’
Uncertainty
prevails whether or not, at this stage, Glober immediately grasped that the
other applicants for help were the Widmerpools. On the whole, it seems likely
he did not. In the dark, there was no reason why he should recognize them. At
the same time, Glober, out of sheer love of living dangerously, may have
accepted this as a challenge. Moreland was ignorant of Glober’s former
affiliations with Pamela, of whom he knew little or nothing at that time.
Stevens, too, had not kept up with Pamela’s ever varying situation, by then of
no particular interest to him, provided his own married life was not
embarrassed by it. In Venice, he had no doubt thought of the Widmerpools as
guests of Jacky Bragadin, rather than connecting either of them with Glober;
Pamela’s own references to Glober giving no reason to convey the comparative
seriousness of her relationship with him.
‘I’d
just love to give you all a ride in my new automobile. Come with us.’
Only
after Glober had made that statement, so it appears, did Widmerpool join the
group. Pamela still remained a little apart.
‘This
is very kind,’ said Widmerpool. ‘We have not seen each other since Venice.’
That
indicated he and Glober had exchanged no word at the party. Glober bowed.
‘You’re
welcome.’
Glober
then introduced Mrs Erdleigh, Jimmy Stripling, Moreland, and Audrey Maclintick.
If Widmerpool was to make a convenience of his car, Glober was determined to
have some amusement too. Audrey Maclintick, of course, wanted to get Moreland
into the Stevens car – and home – but for once does not seem to have succeeded
in making her voice heard. Moreland, telling the story, emphasized the
formality of Glober’s introductions. That was the moment when Pamela joined the
group. She came towards them hesitantly, as if she wanted to be introduced too.
Her arrival impressed Moreland, not on account of any foreseeable disharmony
that might include Glober, but because of the look given her by Mrs Erdleigh,
more precisely rays of mystic disapproval trajected with force noticeable even
in the dark. That perception was characteristic of Moreland. Mrs Erdleigh had
made a deep impression on him.
‘The
Sorceress seemed to know Lady Widmerpool already. At least she gave her
extraordinary smile – one I would rather not have played on myself.’
Pamela
had smiled in return. She took no other notice of Mrs Erdleigh, nor the rest of
them. The person to whom she addressed herself was Polly Duport. Pamela did not
come close, but it was plain to whom she was speaking.
‘I
hear you’re going to be the star in Louis’s new film.’
Pamela
said that very gently, barely audibly. Her tone almost suggested she was shy of
mentioning the matter at all, though beyond words delighted at hearing such a
rumour. All she wanted was to have the good news confirmed. Both Moreland and
Stevens agreed there was not the smallest hint of unfriendliness in Pamela’s
voice. At the same time, Stevens, knowing Pamela to the extent of having lived
with her for at least a few weeks, had no doubt something ominous was brewing.
Moreland, it seemed, had not bothered to categorize Pamela at all; so far as he
was concerned, another ‘lady of fashion’, full of every sort of nonsense about
music, to be avoided at all costs. He admitted to having been struck by her
looks, when he came to examine her.
Polly
Duport, whether she knew much or little about Pamela, can have had few
illusions as to friendliness. She could hardly have failed to hear of Glober’s
comparatively recent intention to cast Pamela for the lead she herself – anyway
for the moment – was intended by him to play. Beyond that knowledge, of a
purely business sort, the extent of her awareness of Pamela’s character, even
nature of relationship with Glober, could well be over-estimated. The
segregated life of the Theatre, separated by its nature from so much going on
round about, might easily have prevented her from hearing more than essential;
so to speak, her own cue in taking Pamela’s place. Polly Duport herself may not
have been, over and above that, at all interested. She would know that Pamela,
not a professional actress, had been in the running as ‘star’ of Glober’s film,
had probably experienced some sort of love affair with him. That was not
necessarily significant. There was no reason for her to guess Glober had
planned to marry Pamela.
Polly
Duport, replying to Pamela’s question, seems to have let fall a scrap of
stylized stage banter adapted to such an enquiry, one of those conventional
sets of phrase, existing in every professional world, in this case designed for
use in counteracting another player, complimentary, spiteful, a mixture of
both; clichés probably often in demand throughout the give-and-take of life in
the Theatre. Moreland could not remember the actual comeback employed. He
suggested several known to himself from his own backstage undertakings.
Whatever form Polly Duport’s answer presented was amicably accepted by Pamela,
but she did not abandon the subject.
‘I’m
sure you’ll like working with Louis.’
‘Who
could doubt that?’ said Polly Duport.
She
spoke lightly, of course. Pamela was behaving as if so pleased about the whole
arrangement, that she was even a little anxious that it might not all go as
well as deserved.
‘You
mean because all women love Louis?’
‘All
the world, surely?’
That
was a neat reply. Pamela recognized it as such. She smiled, rather sadly, even
though the idea seemed to please her. There was an instant’s pause. Moreland
said this was the point when the atmosphere became very highly charged. One of
the elements causing him to notice that was Stripling suddenly ceasing to reel
off names and dates of vintage cars, which, until this tenseness made itself
felt, he had, up to the last possible moment, continued to recite to Glober.
Pamela spoke again, this time reflectively.