Cyril Hare - An English Murder

"Eh?" Sir Julius was evidently taken aback. Mrs. Carstairs, who had been paying little attention to the monologue, stiffened abruptly. Even Robert looked up from his turkey and favoured Dr. Bottwink with a stare.

"But has it never occurred to you, Sir Julius? The parallel has always seemed to my mind singularly exact. Consider." He held up one hand, and ticked off his propositions on his fingers. "You will agree that in both cases you are put, to begin with, to the necessity of going to considerable trouble and expense, and in particular the purchase of costly baits and allurements, many of which will in the end prove quite useless. Next, the stage of preparation completed, there follows—does there not?—the period of reverie, when on the eve of the event you promise yourself unheard-of success and rapture. Third stage: the assignation is made—at the water-side or else-where, as the case may be. Your quarry is within reach, you suffer the delicious agony of anticipation and uncertainty. Think next of the difficulties and disappointments you may encounter, the fatal blunders you may commit up to the very last moment when success seems certain! Remember especially that whatever your skill you may yet be defeated by the mere coyness and reluctance of your prey unless you can bring to your task just that combination of ardour and prudence which is the special gift of the lover! And finally there is the supreme moment of triumph! How exquisite—and how brief!"

He concluded his harangue by drinking off a glass of champagne amid a sudden silence.

"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Carstairs. She had gone extremely pink and was sitting more stiffly upright than ever.

Dr. Bottwink looked at her in alarm. Had he, his expression said, offended yet again these incalculable English? Averting his eyes from the spectacle of outraged virtue, he said diffidently, "I fear that you do not altogether agree with my comparison, Sir Julius?"

"No," said Julius, "I don't." A new light on his favourite recreation had been suddenly vouchsafed to him, and for a long moment it was a question whether he would be offended or amused. To give himself time he too took a glass of champagne, and the generous wine decided for him. "Not altogether," he continued. "Because I have had the experience of catching half a dozen fish inside twenty minutes, and I've never heard of any man who——"

"Sir Julius!" trumpeted Mrs. Carstairs, but there was an ominous break in her voice.

Camilla found herself laughing, more out of relief than anything else, and quite suddenly Robert joined in with a peal of laughter.

When, a few moments later, Briggs brought in the plum pudding, he found the party, as he reported to Rogers, "as cheerful as you'd never believe".

The good humour so unexpectedly acquired lasted until the end of the meal. By common consent the ladies remained in the dining-room after dessert, and saw the precious 1878 port being fearfully punished by Julius and still more by Robert. Briggs came in to enquire whether coffee should be served in the drawing-room. His face was taut with disapproval as he saw Robert empty the last drains of the decanter into his glass. Camilla noticed his expression, but misunderstood its cause. Robert had certainly drunk enough. From being very silent he had become extremely talkative. To some extent, it was a turn for the better. For the time being, there had been flashes of the Robert whom she had known in the past—witty, genial and companionable. He had rallied Sir Julius and Mrs. Carstairs on their politics without offence, and even been civil to Dr. Bottwink. But the line between being better for drink and worse for it is a narrow one. At any moment the line might be crossed and he might say or do something utterly unforgivable.

"Coffee in the drawing-room, I think," said Robert. The last of the irrecoverable vintage slipped down his throat. "And put out the card table. We might have a rubber of bridge."

"Very good, Mr. Robert."

On the way to the drawing-room Dr. Bottwink took Camilla aside.

"Perhaps this would be a good opportunity for me to retire, if you would excuse me," he said. "You will have your party of bridge without me, and I shall only be superfluous."

"Nonsense," said Camilla firmly. "You can't desert us now. Besides——" She cast a glance in the direction of Robert, who was walking in front with the exaggerated care of the tipsy.

"He is a trifle intoxicated, of course," said Dr. Bottwink judicially. "Do you think that my continued presence might be of use?"

"Be of use? My dear man, don't you realize that you completely saved the whole show at dinner?"

"Ah, that!" The historian smiled thinly. "But that was easy. I merely put myself in mind of the famous dictum of Sir Robert Walpole on dinner-table conversation, and acted upon it."

"It may be famous, but I've never heard of it. What did Sir Robert Walpole say?"

Dr. Bottwink hesitated. "Perhaps it would be improper for me to quote it," he said. "It is probably not included in young ladies' history books."

It was ten minutes to midnight. The last rubber of bridge had just come to an end—Sir Julius and Mrs. Carstairs against Robert and Camilla. Dr. Bottwink, who had cut out, was peering past the curtains out of the window. The snow, he could see, was still falling implacably. He shivered, let the curtain fall back into place, and turned to survey the little group round the card table. Sir Julius, a cigar clenched between his teeth, was grunting audibly as he tried to add up the score. Opposite him, Mrs. Carstairs was impatiently tapping the table, barely concealing her contempt at her partner's slowness. Camilla's face was half averted from him, but he could see that she was very pale. It struck him that her attitude was strangely tense and strained. She was looking across to where Robert sprawled in his chair, and Dr. Bottwink guessed that could he have caught the expression on her face he would have seen there a look of anxiety and expectation. He looked at Robert in his turn. It was plain that the good humour induced by dinner had been no more than a transient mood. There was an air of truculence about him now, which had reflected itself in some increasingly wild and unsuccessful play during the last half-hour or so. A disregarded spectator in the shadows, Dr. Bottwink gazed at him with cold and steady dislike, remembering other men who had professed principles not so very different from those of the League of Liberty and Justice, who had been noisy and genial in their cups, and had thereafter committed crimes beyond all reckoning.

"Haven't you added up the score yet, Sir Julius?" Mrs. Carstairs said sharply. "Just look at the time! I should have been in bed long ago."

"You're not going to bed now," said Robert thickly. "Must stay up to see Christmas in."

"Quite unnecessary," said Mrs. Carstairs firmly. "I have to get up early tomorrow to go to church, whatever anybody else may intend to do."

"I fear that that will prove to be impossible," Dr. Bottwink put in. "From my observation, I should say that the snow will prevent anybody from going to church or anywhere else tomorrow morning."

Mrs. Carstairs looked vexed and alarmed.

"It's no distance to church," she objected. "Surely we can have the path cleared as far as that?"

"Who by, my good woman? Who by?" said Robert with an ugly laugh. "The stable-boys and under-gardeners? You seem to forget that there aren't any wage-slaves at Warbeck now. You and Julius have seen to that!"

Mrs. Carstairs disregarded him.

"Sir Julius," she said with dangerous calm, "would you like me to help you with the scores? You seem to be in some difficulty."

"No, no, it's quite all right," Julius mumbled through his cigar, shedding ash upon the table. "It was a bit difficult, there was so much scoring above the line, but I've got it now. Let me see.… Eight and six is fourteen and carry one.… That makes one pound four and five-pence they owe us, Mrs. Carstairs. My congratulations!"