Ngaio Marsh - A Surfeit of Lampreys

Roberta suddenly felt rather desolate. She stared out of the window and only half-listened to Henry who seemed to think he ought to point out places of interest.

‘This is Trafalgar Square,’ said Henry. ‘Isn’t that thing in the middle too monstrous? Lions, you see, at each corner, but of course you’ve met them in photographs.’

‘That building over there is the Tate Gallery,’ said Frid.

‘She means the National Gallery, Robin. I suppose you will want to see one or two sights, won’t you?’

‘Well, I suppose I ought to.’

‘Patch and Mike are at home for the holidays,’ said Frid. ‘It will be good for them to take Robin to some sights.’

‘Perhaps I could look some out for myself,’ Roberta suggested with diffidence.

‘You’ll find it difficult to begin,’ Henry told her. ‘There’s something so cold-blooded about girding up your loins and going out to find a sight. I’ll come to one occasionally if you like. It may not be so bad once the plunge is taken. We are getting a very public-spirited family, Robin. The twins and I are territorials. I can’t tell you how much we dislike it but we stiffened our upper lips and bit on the bullets and when the war comes we know what we have to do. In the meantime, of course, I’ve got to get a job, now we’re sunk.’

‘We’re not definitely sunk until Uncle G. has spoken,’ Frid pointed out.

‘Uncle G.!’ Robin exclaimed. ‘I’d almost forgotten about him. He’s always sounded like a myth.’

‘It’s to be hoped he doesn’t behave like one,’ said Henry. ‘He’s coming to see us tomorrow. Daddy has sent him an SOS I can’t tell you how awful he is.’

‘Aunt V. is worse,’ said Frid gloomily. ‘Let’s face it, Aunt V. is worse. And they’re both coming in order to go into a huddle with Daddy and Mummy about finance. We hope to sting Uncle G. for two thousand.’

‘It’ll all come to Daddy when they’re dead, you see, Robin. They’ve no young of their own.’

‘I thought,’ said Roberta, ‘that they were separated.’

‘Oh, they’re always flying apart and coming together again,’ said Frid. ‘They’re together at the moment. Aunt V. has taken up witchcraft.’

‘What!’

‘Witchcraft,’ said Henry. ‘It’s quite true. She’s a witch. She belongs to a little black-magic club somewhere.’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘You may as well, because it’s true. She started by taking up with a clergyman in Devon who had discovered an evil place on Dartmoor. It seems that he told Aunt V. that he thought he might as well sprinkle some holy water on this evil place but when he went there, the holy water was dashed out of his hands by an unseen power. He lent Aunt V. some books about black magic and instead of being horrified she took the wrong turning and thought it sounded fun. I understand she goes to the black mass and everything.’

‘How can you possibly know?’

‘Her maid, Miss Tinkerton, told Nancy. Tinkerton says Aunt V. is far gone in black magic. They have meetings at Deepacres. The real Deepacres, you know, in Kent. Aunt V. is always buying books about witchcraft, and she’s got a lot of very queer friends. They’ve all got names like Olga and Sonia and Boris. Aunt V. is half-Rumanian, you know,’ said Frid.

‘Half-Hungarian, you mean,’ corrected Henry.

‘Well, all central-European anyway. Her name isn’t Violet at all.’

‘What is it?’ asked Roberta.

‘Something Uncle G. could neither spell nor pronounce so he called her Violet. A thousand years ago he picked her up in Budapest at an embassy. She’s a very sinister sort of woman and quite insane. Probably the witchcraft is a throw-back to a gypsy ancestress of sorts. Of course Uncle G.’s simply furious about it, not being a warlock.’

‘Naturally,’ said Frid. ‘I suppose he’s afraid she might put a spell on him.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Henry. ‘She’s a really evil old thing. She gives me absolute horrors. She’s like a white toad. I’ll bet you anything you like that under her clothes she’s all cold and damp.’

‘Shut up,’ said Frid. ‘All the same I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Henry, do let’s stop somewhere and have breakfast. I’m ravenous and I’m sure Robin must be.’

‘It’ll have to be Angelo’s,’ said Henry. ‘He’ll let us chalk it up.’

‘I’ve got some money,’ said Roberta rather shyly.

‘No, no!’ cried Frid. ‘Angelo’s much too dear to pay cash. We’ll put it down to Henry’s account and I’ve got enough for a tip, I think.’

‘It may not be open,’ said Henry. ‘What’s the time? The day seems all peculiar with this early start. Look, Robin, we’re coming into Piccadilly Circus.’

Roberta stared past the chauffeur and, through the windscreen of the car, she had her first sight of Eros.

In the thoughts of those who have never visited them all great cities are represented by symbols; New York by a skyline, Paris by a river and an arch, Vienna by a river and a song, Berlin by a single street. But to British colonials the symbol of London is more homely than any of these. It is a small figure perched slantways above a roundabout, an elegant Victorian god with a Grecian name – Eros of Piccadilly Circus. When they come to London, colonials orientate themselves by Piccadilly Circus. All their adventures start from there. It is under the bow of Eros that to many a colonial has come that first warmth of realization that says to him: ‘This is London.’ It is here at the place which he learns, with a rare touch of insolence, to call the hub of the universe, that the colonial wakes from the trance of arrival, finds his feet on London paving stones, and is suddenly happy.

So it was for Roberta. From the Lampreys’ car she saw the roundabout of Piccadilly, the great sailing buses, the sea of faces, the traffic of the Circus, and she felt a kind of realization stir in her heart.

‘It’s not so very big,’ said Roberta.

‘Quite small, really,’ said Henry.

‘I don’t mean it’s not thrilling,’ said Roberta. ‘It is. I … I feel as if I’d like to be … sort of inside it.’

‘I know,’ agreed Henry. ‘Let’s nip out, Frid, and walk round the corner to Angelo’s.’

He said to the chauffeur: ‘Pick us up in twenty minutes, will you Mayling?’

‘Here’s a jam,’ said Frid. ‘Now’s our chance. Come on.’

Henry opened the door and took Roberta’s hand. She scrambled out. The voyage, the ship, and the sea all slid away into remoteness. A new experience took Roberta and the sounds that are London engulfed her.

The Lampreys lived in two flats which occupied the entire top storey of a building known as Pleasaunce Court Mansions. Pleasaunce Court is merely a short street connecting Cadogan Square with Lennox Gardens and the block of flats stands on the corner. To Roberta the outside seemed forbidding but the entrance hall had lately been redecorated and was more friendly. Pale green walls, a thick carpet, heavy armchairs and an enormous fire gave an impression of light and luxury. The firelight flickered on the chromium steel of a lift-cage in the centre of the hall and on a slotted framework that held the names of the flat owners. Roberta read the top one: ‘No. 25 & 26, Lord and Lady Charles Lamprey. In.’ Henry followed her gaze, crossed quickly to the board and moved a chromium steel tab.

‘“Lord and Lady Charles Lamprey. Out,” I fancy,’ muttered Henry.

‘Oh, are they!’ cried Roberta. ‘Are they away?’

‘No,’ said Henry. ‘Ssh!’

‘Ssh!’ said Frid.

They moved their heads slightly in the direction of the door. A small man wearing a bowler hat stood on the pavement outside and appeared to consult an envelope in his hands. He looked up at the front of the flats and then approached the steps.