Death of a Delft Blue (Mrs. Bradley) Page 8

  As Henri and Célestine had been despatched to the Stone House in Hampshire to prepare for the arrival of the guests, there was nothing for it, Dame Beatrice observed to Laura, but to dine out. Over the dinner table Dame Beatrice asked for further news of the family. She had already made a civil enquiry as to the state of old Mr. van Zestien’s health and had been told that it gave rise to no anxiety. He was seventy-eight and a little tired, that was all.

  “The family?” repeated Sweyn, to whom the question was addressed. (Laura and Derde were deep in a discussion—or, more accurately, a dissertation by the learned professor—on the magic books of the Aztecs). “Unfortunately they are at sixes and sevens. What does that mean, I wonder? It is a splendid saying. Odds and evens, evens and odds, would you say?”

  “According to the 1895 edition of the Dictionary of Phrase and Fable compiled by the Reverend Doctor of Laws, E. Cobham Brewer,” said Dame Beatrice, “it means, as you indicate, ill-assorted; not matched; higgledy-piggledy.”

  “Higgledy-piggledy! What a delightful word! Permit me to record it. I have not met it before. One pictures the old-fashioned methods of pig-rearing, with infant swine, already weaned, climbing on one another’s backs and pushing one another out of the way in a squealing determination to obtain a major share of nourishment from the trough.”

  He recorded the idiom in a slim notebook.

  “Spoken of things, (I quote)” went on Dame Beatrice, “it means ‘in confusion;’ spoken of persons, it means ‘in disagreement or hostility.’ From the same source one learns that in Taylor’s Workes, published in 1630, ‘Old Odcombs odness makes thee not uneven, nor carelessly set all at six and seven.’ The Hebrews, according to the Reverend Doctor, also had a word for it: ‘six, yea seven,’ meaning an indefinite number. There is a reference to the phrase in the Book of Job.”

  “I am infinitely obliged to you, Dame Beatrice, for your most clear and charming explanation. But ‘higgledy-piggledy’ I like best. As for the family, after whom you so kindly enquire, well, there, I fear, we are indeed at sixes and sevens. The understanding between Binnie and Bernardo does not flourish, and my father is so angry, in consequence, that he has made a new will leaving everything to be divided between Florian and myself. I have remonstrated with him, but to no effect. Certainly the fortune (it will be a very large one, even when halved like this) would be of enormous benefit to my brother and myself, for we could then afford to give up our teaching posts at our universities and devote ourselves to original work, to research studies, to travel, but I dislike the rearrangement which robs Binnie and Bernardo.”

  “You did not mention whether your brother was included in the will.”

  “Whatever includes me includes my brother,” said Sweyn simply. “Then, when Florian heard that I approached my father with a view to getting the wording of the will restored to what it was, he became extremely angry with me and reproached me, with much bad language, and asserted that I was attempting to go behind his back to rob him of his inheritance.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “My brother,” went on Sweyn, “was to have been named co-inheritor with Florian, but he angered my father by telling him that the quarrel between Bernardo and Binnie was their own business and that of nobody else. However, my father is well aware that it makes no difference whether Derde or I inherit, because we shall share the money, therefore his anger is but a token of parental authority. If he were really angry, he would disinherit both of us.” He smiled. Dame Beatrice asked:

  “Are Binnie and Florian still living with their granduncle?”

  “Binnie went back to Scotland with her parents. She and Florian quarrelled bitterly over the broken engagement. She blames him for it and, I am sure, would like to be re-engaged to Bernardo if her pride permitted. Florian is still living with my father, but how long he will stay I do not know. He has further sittings to the sculptor in Amsterdam.”

  “And Mrs. Rebekah Rose?”

  “Ah, that one!” exclaimed Sweyn, with deep feeling. “And yet, you know, her daughter Petra has had several excellent offers of marriage, but she prefers (and I believe that is le mot juste) she prefers to live with that entirely outrageous old woman. Of course,” he added, “there is money in that family. Nathan Rose, husband to Rebekah and father to Sigismund and Petra, was what I believe you call in England a very warm man, and it is known that Rebekah is an extremely wealthy woman. All the same, she is quite likely to leave everything to Sigismund and her other son who is living in America, and not to allow Petra anything more than a nominal share in the fortune. Philip (in America) and Sigismund were left something in their father’s will. The daughter Sarah (also in America) and Petra got nothing at all. The bulk of the fortune went to Rebekah and she has added to it. The family, you see, has always been a matriarchy. This, I believe, is not uncommon in Jewish households.”

  “Yes,” said Derde, who was in conversation with Laura, “the maize was worshipped as a god by the Mexicans. They called him Cinteotl and he is represented in their magic books as a spirit with a flowering maize plant on his head. It gives him a mass of yellow hair and represents the bearded strands one notices on corn on the cob.”

  “One is reminded of the Hiawatha legend,” said Dame Beatrice, breaking away from the family ramifications of the Colwyn-Welch tribe, the van Zestiens and the Jewish Roses, since, intriguing though these were, she did not wish to push confidences too far. The conversation turned upon magic in general and, upon this topic, everybody had something to say. Then magic turned to superstition and superstition to ghosts. In other words, the dinner-party became lively and lasted long.

  On the following morning George brought round the hired car and what Laura called “Mrs. Croc’s stately limousine” and Dame Beatrice, Laura and the guests set out for the Stone House. They lunched in Winchester so that the professors might see the ancient city—its school, its water-meadows, the river, Jane Austen’s house, the St. Cross almshouses, the Cathedral, its Close, and the prehistoric fort on St. Catherine’s Hill—and drove on to Southampton and Lyndhurst and made a détour through part of the New Forest. Then they took the road which led to Wandles Parva.

  Laura’s policeman husband came to dinner at the Stone House and stayed the night, but had to leave early on the following morning for a conference with an Assistant Commissioner. Laura rose at seven and breakfasted with him and then saw him off at soon after half-past eight. She went for a stroll and returned in time to waylay the village postman on his way to the Stone House.

  “I’ll take the letters, if you like,” she said. The postman, whose round covered a good many miles, accepted her offer gratefully, but seemed a little doubtful about giving her two letters addressed to Professor Derde van Zestien.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Laura. “He’s a Dutch professor and is staying here for a day or two. His brother is with him. I should have thought it was all over the village by now.”

  She carried the letters up to the house and found the other three at breakfast. She looked through the correspondence she was holding, put some of it beside her own plate, for a place had been laid for her—it was known that she liked a second breakfast when she had been out for a morning walk or a swim—gave one envelope to Dame Beatrice and the last two to Derde.

  Derde glanced at the two envelopes, and then passed them across to his brother. Sweyn examined them and then pushed them aside.

  “I prefer my kidneys and bacon,” he said, “to be eaten in peace, before I deal with letters from my relatives. One, I see, is from my father,” he added to Dame Beatrice, “and the other is from Florian. We will look at them closely later.”

  “Yes, later,” agreed Derde. They read the letters after breakfast, passing them from one to the other without comment. In an ante-room Laura was busy with some typing. Dame Beatrice, in conference with her servants, was arranging for lunch and dinner. She returned to the library, where she had left the brothers, in time to hear Derde say:

  “Wel
l, we cannot blame Florian. Naturally he is interested in this sculpture and this painting. Most young men are in love with themselves. Why not? Florian is an irritating boy, but, then, who is not irritating at that age?—except to his contemporaries, and, sometimes, even to them.”

  “Very true,” said Sweyn. “Ah, Dame Beatrice!” They rose. “Our letters are causing us just a little concern. My father is distressed because Florian has left his house very suddenly for the Netherlands. We have also heard from Florian himself. He goes to our aunt and cousins so that his bust and a portrait of his hand may be finished. He admits that he went on impulse and that my father is angry with him.”

  “A portrait of his hand?” said Dame Beatrice. “I noticed that he has exquisite hands, but I had not heard that one was to be painted.”

  “Yes. I have not seen the artist’s studies, but I believe that in the picture Florian’s right hand is to be shown holding a hyacinth called the Delft Blue. It is a noble inflorescence and of the same colour as his eyes. One wonders why not a complete portrait. That would be more interesting, I think.”

  “He is a very handsome boy,” said Dame Beatrice, non-committally.

  “Beautiful rather than handsome,” amended Sweyn. “He is indeed rather like a flower, and that gives his appearance a degree of femininity which, one supposes, must be foreign to his nature.”

  “One supposes Narcissus,” said Derde.

  Dame Beatrice thought it better not to comment upon this obvious truth.

  “I wonder whether there is anything in particular you would like to do after lunch?” she said.

  “I should like to see more of the New Forest,” said Sweyn.

  “And I should like to visit the docks at Southampton,” said Derde, smiling.

  “Both plans can be carried out, if we have an early lunch,” said Dame Beatrice. “I will order the car for half-past one. George can take us first to Southampton and then we can come back by way of Lyndhurst and Emery Down. From there, if you liked, Laura could guide you if you wished to take a walk. Walking is quite the best way, I think, to enjoy and savour the Forest.”

  These arrangements were carried out and gave great pleasure to the professors, pleasure which was destined to be short-lived, for a telegram awaited them at the Stone House.

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Dame Beatrice, when Derde handed it to her. “I am very sorry indeed.”

  “So are we,” said Sweyn. “Apart from the news that my father is really ill, it means that we must cut short our visit, I am afraid. It seems that our place is with him.”

  “Hm!” said Laura, when the farewells had been made early on the following morning and the brothers had driven off in their hired car. “I like them, but they are a bit heavy in the hand, don’t you think? At Southampton yesterday we were treated to the history of the port of Antwerp, (which isn’t even in Holland), and on the New Forest walk I heard all about the fauna and flora of the Dutch East Indies—interesting, but I found it fatiguing.”

  “I found them quite charming,” said Dame Beatrice. There was a telegram from Derde on the following day.

  MY FATHER SERIOUSLY ILL LETTER FOLLOWS.

  “I hope the old gentleman’s illness is not as serious as the telegram would lead us to suppose,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “I should think he’s pretty bad. The Dutch are a stolid sort of people and, in any case, I don’t see the professors sending windy telegrams all over the place. I should say they take the placid, academic view of things.”

  “I thought you had read Sir Charles Snow’s The Masters? There seemed little placidity in their academic circle, unless I misunderstood the story.”

  A fortnight passed. Dame Beatrice and Laura returned to London to put in three days a week at the psychiatric clinic and to go down to Hampshire to stay at the Stone House from Thursday evenings until early on Tuesday mornings. It was on a Saturday that the promised letter came from Derde.

  “My father seems a little stronger, but we have not liked to tell him the latest family vexation. From my telegram of a fortnight ago you will realise that we found my father very ill indeed, the result, it seems, of shock. We were sufficiently alarmed to send for his sister, my aunt Binnen. She is here with my cousins, and my sister Maarte and her husband are also with us.

  “We can suggest no cause for shock except the sudden departure of Florian. My father will not have his name mentioned in his presence, and, indeed, it is just as well, for, to the distress of my aunt and cousins, Florian left their house as abruptly as he left this one, and has disappeared. For fear that my father should die, Florian must be found and brought back here so that a reconciliation may be brought about. My father is very fond of the boy and could be persuaded, I am sure, to forgive him.

  “My brother and I are wondering whether you could possibly spare the time to come along and give us the benefit of your advice and experience, as you are a psychiatrist and will be able to explain to us why Florian should act in this unaccountable way.

  “We have advertised in Dutch, English, Austrian, and Italian papers for him, but, so far, without result.”

  “Well, well, well!” said Laura, when she had read the letter. “What are you going to do?”

  “I shall go at once to Norfolk, child. This is a cry from the heart and cannot be disregarded. Put off everybody who can be put off, and refer the rest to Doctor Anderson.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Concern about the Dispossessed

  “It occurs to me that you may care to investigate the matter with me. If so, send me a wire when to expect you.”

  E. and H. Heron

  “You think there’s some connection between Florian’s disappearance and this gathering of the clans, don’t you?” said Laura, as they drove northwards on the following morning. “I mean, it isn’t only the old chap’s illness.”

  “I think that Professor Derde is an extremely worried man,” said Dame Beatrice. “I esteem him very highly and I should like to help him. In what way I can do so is in doubt until I meet him again, but the least I can do is to go and see him. After all, he is an authority on the Aztecs of Mexico, is he not?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Laura. Dame Beatrice waved a yellow explanatory hand.

  “Human sacrifices, dear child, appear to have been a feature of their religion.”

  “You mean that Florian’s dead?”

  “After death there is no other accident,” pronounced Dame Beatrice. “That is what the Greeks thought, and I doubt whether there are many theologians today who would refuse to bear them out. I am always suspicious when persons who have what are sometimes called ‘expectations’ vanish without trace. Why the Austrian and Italian papers, I wonder?”

  “I thought Florian’s expectations had gone overboard,” said Laura. After lunching in Great Yarmouth, they arrived at Bernard van Zestien’s house at four o’clock, having stayed for a while on the front at Sheringham. Derde met them at the door.

  “I’ve been looking down the drive for the past hour,” he said. “I am so very glad to see you. It is good of you to come. An English tea is laid in the library. When you are refreshed, I will tell you all I know or can guess.”

  The library was a spacious, handsome room with a carved overmantel attributed to Grinling Gibbons, (but more likely to have been the work of one of his pupils), a remarkable painted ceiling and windows which overlooked two sides of the park. The books were neither numerous nor noteworthy. In fact, two shelves were given over to modern novels, detective stories and tales of adventure, these to suit the taste, Dame Beatrice concluded, of Florian and Binnie.

  A maid, with the flat features and small, intelligent eyes of so many of the East Anglian peasantry, served tea, at which the visitors were joined by Derde and Sweyn. The latter, it was soon clear, did not share his elder brother’s fears and anxieties.

  “Ten to one,” he said, when tea had been cleared away and the party were seated round the fire
, “Florian, having slipped across to Holland so that his portrait bust can be finished, merely is staying there because he intends to have the work photographed and to send copies of the photograph to the prospective publishers of his book.”

  “He is an author, then?” said Dame Beatrice. “What is his line? Has he a special interest?”

  “He is preparing a work which describes the limestone caves and grottoes of the South Limburg province. I think that he also has chapters on the Cheddar Gorge in England, and those grottoes in Priddy and the Mendip Hills. So I think, but I doubt whether it is a very good book. In any case, although he calls himself an author, none of his work has, as yet, been published.”

  “But you do not know for certain whether or not he has left Holland?”

  “We do not know. We have no idea, and neither has our aunt Binnen. Cousin Opal looks wise but says little, except that he may be in the Dolomites.”

  “Why are you so worried about him, Professor?” demanded Dame Beatrice, addressing Derde.

  “I hardly know. He is a foolish boy, very sure that he knows everything. All the same, if he had seen our notices in the newspapers, I am sure that he would have come to his granduncle’s bedside.”

  “What do you want me to do? He seems to have been thoughtless, but young people are like that. Is there nothing else you would like to tell me?”

  Sweyn scowled at the toes of his shoes. Derde glanced at his brother and then said:

  “None of us likes his attitude towards his sister’s engagement.”

  “But I understood that the engagement had been broken off.”

  “I think Time will heal that little breach,” said Sweyn, raising his head and fixing his light-coloured eyes on those of Dame Beatrice. Hers were as black as coals and her whole expression was non-committal.