The Honours Page 9

  ‘Gas is nasty, granted,’ he said, throwing a gin trap onto the pile, ‘but there’s not a soldier living who didn’t learn to fear and hate rats. If you see one, kill it. They’re vermin.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like the word vermin,’ said Delphine.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Mr Garforth, ‘and I don’t like rats.’

  Delphine chewed her twist of liquorice and said nothing. She thought of how she had checked the traps for him that morning, walking through crunchy, fragrant fields, collecting the traps that had caught something, springing and resetting the ones that hadn’t. She thought of how she had found the dead weasel, blunt gin teeth champing its spine, and, in front of it, in a plum-dark pool of blood, a shivering infant rat, barely bigger than her thumb. She thought of its downy hair, of how it had not tried to run away.

  She had tightened her grip on the coal shovel Mr Garforth had given her for dispatching anything still alive. She had held it above the rat; the shovel had cast a Zeppelin-shaped shadow. She had braced herself for the coup de grace.

  Then she had scooped the creature up and carried it back to the Hall. She had put it inside an old liquorice allsorts tin with a saucer of water and a handful of porridge oats. She had stabbed holes in the lid and hidden it under her bed.

  She watched Mr Garforth work the fire with a set of bellows. He added more water to the cauldron, then handed her the bucket to refill at the pump.

  The rat would probably be dead by the time she got back. Part of her hoped that it was, if only to assuage the guilt she felt every time she looked at Mr Garforth. How could she witter on about defending King and Country when she didn’t have the guts to kill a single baby rat?

  When she reached the pump she found a white feather had stuck to her sandal. She peeled it off and tried to fling it away, but it wafted back and landed at her feet.

  The pump squeaked as she filled the bucket. Delphine dipped her hands into the icy water, washing them again and again and again.

  Later that afternoon, she hid inside the wall and watched the old lady sleeping: the swell and sink of the duvet, the skin that hung from the ancient jaw like gills. Delphine found herself thinking of a shrunken head she had seen at the carnival when she was very little – the smell of damp sawdust and canvas, the hushed dark of the tent, and a scrunched brown thing, rather like a toffee apple, framed by matted hair, its lips fastened with twine. She remembered gazing, transfixed by the sad, lidded eyes, waiting for it to draw breath, to speak. How Mother had scolded Daddy for showing his daughter something so frightening! And so Delphine, not wishing to get him in more trouble, had kept quiet when, for the next three weeks, the head stood watch at the end of her bed, heavy and silent as a bag of suet, vanishing whenever she opened her eyes.

  Delphine watched the old lady and felt a prickling wonder. She could not imagine being so old, existing inside such ruin. The old lady turned, made a noise in the back of her throat. Veins tattooed her bare scalp. Beneath mottled amber lamplight, she was a wreck, breaking up on the tide that came with each stuttering breath.

  Delphine drew back from the spyhole, rested against the wall. The air in the passageway was muggy and perfectly still.

  She heard a whine from the other side of the wall. Delphine put her eye to the spyhole and saw Mr Propp.

  He had his back to Delphine. He lowered his dumpy body into a chair at the bedside. The old lady was awake. She was crying. Mr Propp gripped her hand and smoothed her long pale fingers. As he leant in, shadows picked out tiny dents all over his bald head. Tears streamed across the old lady’s cheeks. She howled, a faint, ululating sound that made Delphine’s skin prickle.

  Propp’s lips squeaked as he kissed the old lady’s brow.

  ‘Shh shh shh shh.’ His voice was steady and sonorous. ‘Shutov k’ancni.’ He held her.

  Delphine felt drowsy. She was falling prey to his mesmeric arts. She told herself to resist, yet a second impulse willed her to succumb. Part of her wanted to give in to him, wanted to be important enough for him to notice and control.

  Slowly, the old lady slackened and fell asleep. Mr Propp rested the back of his palm against her cheek, muttering the same incantation: ‘K’ancni. K’ancni. K’ancni.’

  He slid his hand away, reached for something on the bedside table. Delphine heard a metallic scrape, like coin on coin. Propp lifted his plump frame from the chair. He took his heavy silk robe from a hook on the door. From the seat of his pinstripe trousers hung a leather holster. In his right hand was a revolver.

  ‘Mr Propp has a gun.’

  Mother did not break stride. ‘Delphine. Not now.’

  ‘He has a gun. I saw.’ Delphine struggled to keep pace as they marched through the long gallery that ran west to east along the ground floor, connecting the smoking room to the old banqueting hall. Mother had insisted she ‘dress appropriately’ for the symposium – a stupid pond-weedy heap of a frock that made it hard to run.

  ‘Saw? Saw? What do you mean you “saw”?’

  ‘I saw him put a Webley Mark 6 revolver down the back of his trousers.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!’

  ‘It might have been the new Mark 4 .38. I only saw it for a second.’

  ‘Really.’

  Delphine accelerated so she could turn and look Mother in the face. ‘Please. I think he might be – ’

  ‘Enough!’ Mother jerked to a halt and snatched Delphine’s wrist. ‘You will not start again with your, your . . . fantasies.’

  ‘But Mr Propp – ’

  ‘Very well may have a gun. Many, in fact most of Lord Alderberen’s male guests will have brought at least one with them for their stay here.’

  ‘Not a shotgun. A revolver.’ Exasperated, Delphine mimed a pistol with her free hand and aimed it at her mother’s head. ‘And he was carrying it with him.’

  Mother stopped beside a bust of Cicero. She swatted Delphine’s hand away.

  ‘Even if I did consider you remotely trustworthy, I don’t see what business it is of mine and, more to the point, yours, if Mr Propp chooses to carry his own property about his person. If he did have some underhand purpose in mind, I scarcely think he would have let a nosy little girl stand there and watch while he armed himself.’

  ‘He didn’t know I was . . . that is . . . ’ Delphine caught herself. ‘I’m not sure that he saw me. I was coming down the corridor, towards his room. He was standing there. He must have just locked the door. He had his back to me.’

  ‘Delphine, please.’ Mother took a step back, silver evening dress hanging from her shoulders like a popped balloon in a thorn bush. ‘Not tonight, of all nights.’ She hooked a finger through the chain round her neck. ‘This is your father’s first symposium. It’s so important to him.’

  ‘He’s not even here.’

  ‘He will be. And until he is we have a duty to be seen as a decent, respectable family.’ The magnitude of the task seemed to settle on her like a great, black bird. ‘Don’t you want him to be happy? Don’t you want him to get well?’

  ‘Of course, I – ’

  ‘Then please. Just play your part until he arrives.’

  And with that, she began dragging Delphine towards the doors, the smoke, the symposium.

  The banqueting hall was a long, rectangular room, its oak-panelled walls decorated with zodiac tapestries, paintings of late medieval battle scenes, circular gilded shields of watered steel (Delphine thought they might be Indian) and – bracketed to the wall above the fireplace – a huge, gemmed war hammer. Thirty or more guests jawed and puffed, poets and business owners and composers and politicians and philosophers and old soldiers, tweed and flannel and silver Asprey cigarette cases, eyeglasses on silk ribbons and glass eyes in sallow sockets and white shrapnel scars, walking sticks and gleaming cufflinks and facial tics, pipes and cigarettes and alcohol, sloshing, gleaming, flowing.

  Somewhere amongst it all was Propp.

  Under her ghastly frock, Delphine was sweating. The rank,
warm flavour of cigarettes caught in her throat. She stood with Mother beside the wide fireplace, part of a loose group gathered around Dr Lansley. If only she could slip away, just for a minute, to find Propp.

  Dr Lansley stood with his eyes half-lidded, one glove pressed to his chest, the other swishing a cigarillo side to side. His dinner jacket squeezed his figure into a lithe S, deaf-aid cable trailing from one ear.

  In the past fortnight, Mother’s manner towards Dr Lansley had chilled. They now acknowledged one another with the barest of pleasantries, and were rarely seen in the same room save for mealtimes. Perhaps Mother – fool though she was – was finally growing leery of Mr Propp’s associates.

  An older lady in a flowing green gown turned to address Mother.

  ‘And how are you finding life at Spim?*’

  ‘We’re very honoured Lord Alderberen invited us.’

  Dr Lansley’s lips formed a half-smile, his little black moustache glinting.

  ‘Oh, come now, don’t be modest,’ he said, gazing into the fire. ‘Of course Lazarus invited you. Your husband’s practically family.’ His voice dropped a note. ‘I hear he and Arthur were very close.’

  Mother sipped her Tom Collins and grimaced as if it were vinegar. ‘They served together, yes.’

  A silence fell over the group. Alice the maid passed with a tray of drinks. Everyone took one. Delphine gritted her teeth. Without a distraction, she would never get away. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Um, excuse me, Doctor?’

  Dr Lansley looked at her without turning his head. Mother pretended to scratch her temple, glaring at Delphine pointedly behind her hand.

  ‘Mother is fascinated by these figures.’ Delphine pointed to two oak-carved statuettes either side of the fireplace. They were three feet tall and gangly, clad in mismatched bits of armour. She could not tell if they were supposed to be human, or if the ragged shapes on their backs were wings. ‘She wondered if you knew anything about them.’

  Dr Lansley’s eyes narrowed. He looked from Delphine to Mother.

  ‘Is that true, Anne? I thought you’d grown tired of my little lectures.’

  ‘Well, I . . . ’ Mother coughed into her drink. ‘My daughter exaggerates. I mean, I don’t really know . . . ’

  Delphine began slipping away.

  ‘Ah, Delphine, don’t wander off.’

  ‘They’re Tudor origin,’ Dr Lansley said, directing the group’s attention back towards the fireplace, ‘Henry the Seventh without a doubt. Look how their hands are clasped. Standard-bearers. Ten-to-one they held banners at tournaments. I’d stake my late mother’s life on it.’

  ‘Just getting some more Vimto.’ Delphine held up her empty glass, but Dr Lansley was passionately placing the statuettes in their proper historical context, and nobody heard.

  ‘Funny little devils,’ said the woman in green. ‘Like bats.’

  Delphine escaped.

  She headed for the edge of the room, where the crowd was lighter. She clipped an elbow and someone tutted. She could not see Mr Propp anywhere.

  She leant against the wall and found herself next to Professor Carmichael.

  The Professor clutched a sheaf of paper close to his face, mouthing words. His champagne-coloured suit was several sizes too small, stretched taut over his wide shoulders. He had slicked back his unruly brown hair with brilliantine; as he squinted in the light of the chandelier, it shimmered like kelp.

  ‘Professor?’

  The Professor started, glancing around before locating Delphine at his left.

  ‘God almighty, girl.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Don’t sneak up on people like that.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ She had to shout to be heard over the chatter.

  ‘What am I doing? What am I doing? Bugger off is what I’m doing. You ought to be in bed.’

  ‘I’m on important business.’

  His frown faltered. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Delphine hesitated, wondering how much to tell him.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Propp,’ she said.

  ‘Not very hard, obviously. He’s just there.’

  The Professor nodded towards the centre of the room. Delphine turned to look, but bodies blocked the way. She wedged a heel against the skirting board and lifted herself up.

  Two people were ringed in the golden glow of the chandelier: Mr Propp, smiling beneath his white moustache, and beside him, another resident of the Hall, sipping a martini as she tossed her smile from one lucky guest to another – Miss DeGroot.

  Delphine glanced back at the Professor. His lips were parted and his eyes did not blink. He looked younger, somehow.

  His hands snapped tight round his sheaf of paper.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  He began shouldering his way into the throng.

  Guests sighed and rolled their eyes. Delphine darted into his considerable wake, the crowd closing behind her.

  ‘Well, Ivan, if the rumours are true, you’re a very dangerous man.’

  Delphine followed the Professor to the edge of the circle surrounding Propp and Miss DeGroot. Mr Propp had one hand on his silk waistcoat, patting his belly. He chuckled, his tanned cheeks dimpling.

  ‘No. I do not think this.’ His demeanour was halfway between Heidi’s grandfather and a small porcelain owl. He was diabolically cunning.

  ‘Such innocence!’ said Miss DeGroot. She had the dramatic figure of a treble clef. She wore a crisp silk blouse, sleek black trousers and a cream capelet decorated with blue swallows. Her hair hung in a slick wave of honey. Using the green divan behind her as a point of reference, Delphine guessed she was a little over four feet tall.

  ‘Come now, Ivan. You’re amongst friends.’ Her soft Canadian accent was punctuated by lapses into something more exotic, as if she had painted over an old voice only for certain words to show through. She jabbed his shoulder. ‘Why, in Belgravia I’ve had several gentlemen . . . ’ the crowd let out cat-calls and whistles, ‘if you’ll let me finish . . . I’ve had several respectable gentlemen tell me in all sincerity that this little,’ she flapped a fur-cuffed satin evening glove at the room, ‘ginger group of yours is the guiding hand behind every government in the civilised world. “Watch that Mr Propp,” they say,’ and here she affected a stiff, military voice, ‘“He’s a downy bird, you mark my words. Makes Rasputin look like Santa Claus.” Should I be terribly afraid?’

  Delphine gripped her glass.

  ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘you told them how boring I in fact am.’

  ‘But that’s just it – when I defend you they think my head’s been turned. They think I’m a lieutenant in your black gang.’

  ‘So what do you say?’

  Miss DeGroot drew on her cigarette holder and gave her audience a sly smile.

  ‘What can I say? I tell them they’re absolutely right and the revolution starts in three weeks.’

  Laughter, applause. Professor Carmichael, waiting on the cusp of the group, rocking back and forth on his heels, took a fortifying puff on his cigar. He cleared his throat.

  Miss DeGroot, oblivious, was pointing at the ceiling.

  ‘Now when was this created?’ she asked Mr Propp.

  Above their heads, a complex symmetrical pattern spread from the central chandelier. Overlapping layers of circles wove huge, colourful petals, resolving at their farthest extremities into eight damascene discs of black oxidised iron and silver, each the size of a dinner plate, depicting the phases of the moon. It would, Delphine imagined, have looked perfectly boring had several fires not left the ceiling an angry mass of apocalyptic black tendrils, swarming from the centre of the universe, engulfing everything.

  Mr Propp gave an exaggerated, distinctly Gallic shrug. ‘I am merely dance teacher. For history, you must ask Doctor Lansley.’

  ‘Really? I say, Doctor?’ The crowd parted as Miss DeGroot shuffled round the divan towards Dr Lansley, her blond hair holding perfect shape. Delphine had to go on tiptoes to keep h
er in sight. ‘I do beg your pardon.’ She grasped one of Lansley’s long thin arms, winking at Mother. For an instant, she looked like a miniature Gainsborough Lady. ‘Doctor, we require your legendary expertise. We have a sudden yen for a full and frank history of the banqueting-hall ceiling.’ The crowd closed behind her as she dragged him back into the centre of the room. ‘Do you know anything of its provenance?’ Dr Lansley and Mr Propp exchanged a glance. Lansley sucked in his prim chin.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You’ve spotted the “lunar mandala”.’

  ‘Is it very old?’ Miss DeGroot’s eyes widened. ‘Was it here before the house? Did the druids build it? Will it bewitch us?’

  Dr Lansley swirled his brandy glass and glowered into its amber waters. ‘Third Earl. That is, Lord Alderberen’s father.’

  Delphine had barely seen Lazarus Stokeham, 4th Earl of Alderberen, since her arrival. She had snatched glimpses of a rumpled old man who looked as if he had been poured into his bath chair, but so far the Earl remained a rumour, an idea, like the King, or Death.

  The Doctor coughed into a clenched glove. ‘The third Earl was a bit of a . . . well, I suppose you might call him an innovator. One of the first places in the country to install electricity – ’81 or ’82, it must have been. One of the first to have a telephone put in, too, although where the sense is in having one before everyone else I don’t know. In any case,’ he regarded the scorch marks ruefully, ‘as you can see, the electric light system they rigged up was rather unsafe. Laz . . . ah, Lord Alderberen says when he first returned from India the ceiling would occasionally burst into flame, and they’d have to fling cushions up at it to put it out. Still, such is the price of ambition, I suppose. Pioneers rarely hit it in the middle of the bat.’