Midnight is a Place Page 8
Munching the dull stuff he remembered that while waiting to speak to Mrs. Braithwaite he had noticed a most appetizing smell of rabbit stew floating from the doorway of one of those miserable little houses. He had a notion that old Gabriel caught rabbits in the park and sold them in the town; or perhaps people from the town occasionally snared their own rabbits in the park on moonless nights?
He knew that he ought to be getting on with his schoolwork and brought his mind back to it with an effort. There lay his unfinished composition: "Industry is a good thing, because it is better to work in a carpet factory than to be out in the rain with nothing to eat."
But suppose the owner of the factory cut your wages by half? Suppose you had six children? Suppose three of them had been badly injured by the press? Would you think industry was such a good thing then?
He wrote a few paragraphs—slowly, with as much effort as if he were cutting the words in marble. Then his eyes strayed toward his leatherbound book. He pushed the composition away, opened the book, and wrote, "Dear Greg: Since I last addressed you, I have had another adventure...." His hand raced. Lines flowed out from his pen. Three quarters of an hour later, he wrote, "Anna-Marie had gone to sleep," stretched his cramped hand with a sigh, and closed the book.
Glancing out the window at the park, dimly visible behind whirling snowflakes, he suddenly remembered that he had promised to try and repair Anna-Marie's broken doll. He jumped up, ran from the room, and made his way to the Oak Chamber, feeling rather pleased with himself for his kindness.
He entered the room cautiously, in case Anna-Marie was still asleep. She had woken, however, and was sitting by the fire in a small wicker chair which must have been fetched out from some forgotten lumber room; she was very carefully stitching together the frayed edges of the pink dress that had been torn that morning.
"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" she inquired, biting off her thread in a preoccupied manner, and giving Lucas a rather lofty glance, as if she were engaged on important business, and not quite sure if she had the time to grant him an interview.
Putting on airs, he thought. One minute she's crying and carlying on and sucking her thumb; next thing she's acting as if she wouldn't call the Queen her cousin.
"I've come to mend your doll," he said.
"C'est déjà fait. The old man—Meester Towzir—he has done it." She indicated the repaired doll which lay in a small box by the fireplace, clumsily strapped together in plaster and brown paper, presumably waiting for the glue to dry.
"So you are too late," said Anna-Marie coolly. "Merci de rien."
Apparently dismissing Lucas from her attention, she held up the pink dress and inspected it with great care.
"Well don't strain yourself by saying thank you," he snapped, stung by her condescending manner.
"Quoi? I do not onnerstan'."
"In that case I'd better give you an English lesson."
"Ne vous dérangez pad. Monsieur Ooka—Ookapool—'e 'ave teach me some already, c'en est assez." She selected a length of pink silk and rethreaded her needle.
Annoyed by this evident lack of appreciation of the trouble and time he had been prepared to spend on her, he said, "Would you like me to tell you a story?"
"If you wish. Cela m'est égal." She bent over the pink dress again.
"I won't trouble myself if you feel like that about it," said Lucas, and he gave her a short severe lecture to the effect that she wasn't going to make herself liked at Midnight Court until she learned to behave with more politeness and gratitude to the people who did her kindnesses.
Then he left, shutting the door sharply behind him. It would be a long time, he thought, before he'd offer to do anything for her again.
He might have been even more exasperated if he had reopened the door. Behind it, Anna-Marie had abandoned her sewing and flung herself to the floor, pillowing her head on the pink dress. "Oh, Papa! Oh, Sidi! I don't want anyone to like me in this hateful place! I want you, only you!"
But of this Lucas knew nothing. Hearing an extraordinary sound of banging and thumping from the direction of the main staircase, he had given way to curiosity and walked in that direction. Turning a corner in the passage, he was held riveted by the scene that was taking place a little farther on.
Three men were locked together in what looked like a fight to the death. They strained and stamped, heaved and grunted and struggled, bumping against the wall and the balustrade at the stairhead. The hall was full of the sound of their gasping breath and an occasional damn.
In the dim light—the candles had not yet been lit—it was hard to make out one from another. Somebody seemed to be trying to throw somebody else over the banisters, and a third party was attempting to prevent this. Redgauntlet the hound circled round the group, hysterically barking, letting out an occasional whimper when one of the fighters knocked against or trod on him.
Lucas felt that he ought to help, and yet it was hard to know what he could do. None the less he drew nearer, and caught a glimpse of the turkey-cock red face of Sir Randolph. Now he could see that his guardian had both arms tightly wrapped round another man and seemed engaged in trying to break his ribs by sheer pressure. Sir Randolph was being hindered from his efforts by Mr. Oakapple, who was both struggling and remonstrating:
"Sir Randolph! Sir Randolph, please! You must leave go, sir, indeed you must! This will not do, sir, you are forgetting yourself."
"Forgetting himself, rats!" grunted the man whom Sir Randolph was trying to throw over the rail. "If you weren't aware that Sir Randolph is the most awkward customer for miles around, Mr. Oakapple, I certainly was! I knew it would be taking my life in my hands to coom along this afternoon and serve the Order. But a public servant's got his dooty to do—agghhh!" he gasped, as the enraged Sir Randolph managed to get a hand on his windpipe.
Then Lucas recognized the bald head and brass buttons of Mr. Gobthorpe the tax official. At the same moment Mr. Oakapple, catching sight of Lucas for the first time, exclaimed, "Go and fetch Garridge or old Gabriel—Sir Randolph is distempered, he is not himself."
Lucas tried to edge around the group in order to get down the stairs.
"Not himself!" burst out the tax official, getting Sir Randolph's hand off his throat again, "he's exactly himself, if you were to ask me—of all the pesky, contumacious, aggravating, bellicocious tax defaulters, he's the wust I ever coom across, or my name's not Esdras Gobthorpe."
His words increased the fury of Sir Randolph, who made another lunge at him. This had the effect of tipping the whole group over the head of the stairs, just at the moment when Lucas had squeezed by them, and they all tumbled down higgledy-piggledy, falling over one another.
Apparently, as it turned out, nobody's limbs were broken, and the sudden upset at least succeeded in disentangling the fighters. The little tax officer, Mr. Gobthorpe, with great presence of mind leapt to his feet and made for the front door, exclaiming, "I give you good day, sir! I have done my dooty. I have served the Order, which falls due in three weeks' time. After that, it's pay or go to prison. And before then you will probably receive a Summons for assault of a revenue officer in pursoot of his lawful occasions!"— with which parting shot he slammed the door behind him. Sir Randolph, eyes starting, purple with choler, might very likely have gone in pursuit, despite the restraining grasp of Mr. Oakapple, if another visitor had not just then very opportunely arrived and entered through the same door by which Mr. Gobthorpe had departed, conveniently blocking the way. He gazed in dignified surprise at Sir Randolph's face of fury.
"Ah—Mr. Throgmorton. Good afternoon," panted Mr. Oakapple. "Mr. Throgmorton, will you please represent to Sir Randolph that he must not punch a tax official, nor call him a scrimshanked blatherskite—"With caution he let go of Sir Randolph's arm, but kept a firm grasp on the tails of his velvet jacket.
"Heydey! What's all this about?" demanded the new arrival, a small, slim, sour-faced individual, very plainly and neatly dressed in a gray jacket and waistcoat, gray smal
lclothes and stockings, very white ruffles, and a very crisp gray wig. "What's to do, pray?"
There was a clatter of hoofs from outside as Mr. Gobthorpe the tax man made off up the drive. Sir Randolph sat down furiously on the third step of the stairway, and growled, "Fetch me a glass of brandy!"
"Ought he to have any more?" said Mr. Throgmorton, giving the baronet a sharp look.
"He has had only one bottle, this afternoon, I think," said Mr. Oakapple.
"Then he may as well have a glass—it may calm him. Boy, fetch the brandy."
After looking to Mr. Oakapple, who nodded, Lucas hurried into the huge dining room, in which no furniture now remained save for one tiny round table, a chair, and a small cupboard containing bottles and glasses. Returning with the cognac and a glass, Lucas heard Mr. Oakapple saying, "Would you not wish to return to your study, sir?"
"I don't budge from this spot until I've had a drink," growled Sir Randolph.
Taking the bottle and glass from Lucas, he poured himself a large tumblerful, spilling some, and drank it down.
No one ordered Lucas to leave, and so he remained, wondering what would happen next.
"Well? What did the tax officer say?" inquired Mr. Throgmorton, when Sir Randolph had drunk the brandy.
Lucas observed that Mr. Throgmorton, although so small and pinch-faced, did not seem to be at all in awe of Sir Randolph, but spoke very shortly, as if his patience had been tried greatly and often.
"Filthy ravening brutes! Yapping jackals! Blister them all." Sir Randolph stared furiously about, as if the hall were full of tax collectors. He made no attempt to return to his study, but poured himself a second tumblerful of spirit. "You're my lawyer, Throgmorton, why don't you pr'tect me from those vampires? Eh?"
"What did Mr. Gobthorpe say?"
"He said that either the Mill or this house would have to be sold to pay off twenty years' accumulation of unpaid taxes," Mr. Oakapple said in a low voice.
Happening to glance at Mr. Throgmorton as Mr. Oakapple said these words, Lucas observed a very sharp gleam in the lawyer's eye as if the news had some personal interest for him.
"Almost the moment for Holdernesse to make his offer," Lucas heard him mutter. "Brought so low, Grimsby will be obliged to accept. A year from now, I may be taking my ease in Monte Carlo!"
Nobody but Lucas caught this muttered remark.
"Vultures! Hyenas!" shouted Sir Randolph, thumping his brandy glass down on the stairs so violently that it shivered into fragments. "My own house, m'own place that I won in—in fair play. Give it up t'those gnawing rats? Never!"
"Then I suppose it is the Mill that must be sold," said Air. Throgmorton calmly.
"Are you mad, man? 'Ve you taken leave 'f your wits? Mill's m'only soursh—source 'f income—almosht only source," protested Sir Randolph. He spoke complainingly, but there was a cunning gleam in his eye. "If Mill goes, what'll I live on? What'll I shup—s'port dependents on?" His eye roved about and fixed on Lucas. "Pack 'f brats in th'house—mouths t'feed. Be off, you, whelp!" he suddenly shouted at Lucas. "This's none 'f your affairs. No, stay, 'fore you go, fetch me 'nother glass."
"No more—you have had enough to drink, Sir Randolph—quite enough," interposed Mr. Throgmorton. "Come, you had best go to your study and rest. Run along, boy, there is no need for you to remain."
Mr. Oakapple also jerked his head in dismissal, and Lucas began to walk away, feeling unfairly used. None of his business, indeed! Surely, if his father had been Sir Randolph's partner, and if he was supposed to inherit a half share of the Mill when he came of age, then the sale of it should be considered his business. But apparently neither the lawyer nor Mr. Oakapple thought so.
He was halfway to the schoolroom when he recollected that he had intended to fetch in a new supply of kindling for his fire. He decided to go out to the woodshed before it was too dark, and made his way through the kitchens and the servants' quarters—now mostly empty and bare—to the stableyard.
Emerging from the woodshed with his bundle of twigs, he was accosted by Garridge, who was just dismounting from a flea-bitten gray, one of the last horses in the stables. Horse and man were caked with snow.
"Eh, Mester Lucas! The very lad! Ye can run an errand for me to Sir Randolph, if ye will."
"Why should I?" inquired Lucas rather coldly. Garridge had never shown him any particular kindness; indeed he was usually rather surly and disagreeable.
"I can hardly go into t'master's study like this, can I? An' it'll save t'poor owd nag standing in t'snow. 'Tis only to deliver a message—I'm nobbut joost coom back from town."
"What happened there? Did they go on strike at the Mill?" demanded Lucas, his dislike of Garridge overborne by curiosity.
"Nay, there'll be no strike. Not this time, leastways. The sodjers arrived an' drove 'em all out, and they've stook a coople o' th' ringleaders in the pokey. All's quiet enow."
"Scatcherd? Did they put him in jail?"
"Aye, him an' anither o' his cullies."
"Oh well, Sir Randolph will be relieved to hear that."
"Ay, an' joost as well, for my t'oother message is like to leave him flaysome enow."
"What's that?"
"Tell him the white cock lost," Garridge said, swung a leg back over the gray and kicked him into a reluctant trot.
"Is that all?"
Garridge made no answer, but Lucas heard him grunt to himself with satisfaction, "An' that's saved me a bang on the lug, if I knaw owt aboot t'master. I'll gan off home now."
"The white cock lost," Lucas repeated, somewhat mystified, as he carried his wood to the schoolroom.
The front hall was empty once more, when he climbed the main staircase. How strange it was, he thought, that until yesterday he had hardly set foot here above three times, and now he seemed to be continually going up and down this way. For some reason the change made him uneasy. The white cock lost. What could that mean? It had an unchancy sound, he thought. Drat old Garridge and his haste to get away—riding Sir Randolph's horse, too!
He knocked at the study door.
"What now—who is it?" a voice said sharply, and Lucas had half a mind to retreat, for the voice was that of Mr. Oakapple, not Sir Randolph, and Lucas had a guilty feeling about his unfinished composition on Industry. Also, Mr. Oakapple might be annoyed, for all he knew, at his having been a witness to the fight with Mr. Gobthorpe and Sir Randolph's drunkenness. He was still hesitating when the door was flung open.
Mr. Oakapple stood in the doorway, looking impatient. Glancing past him, Lucas could see Sir Randolph seated at his desk, leaning forward with his head on his arms and evidently asleep, for he was snoring loudly.
"Oh, it's you," Mr. Oakapple said. "Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I have a message from Garridge, sir."
"He's no business to give you his messages. He should bring them himself. Well, what was it, then?"
"First, that the strike is off and that Scatcherd and another man have been put in jail."
"Oh. Well, I daresay Sir Randolph will be glad enough to hear that, when he wakes. What else?"
"And, sir, Garridge said to say that the white cock lost."
Mr. Oakapple had been absently looking through a leather portfolio of papers, as they spoke; Lucas had noticed that a bureau which stood against the wall was open, and that an untidy heap of documents lay on its front flap. Now, with a furious exclamation, the tutor flung the portfolio down onto Sir Randolph's desk.
"Damned old fool! Miserable old sot! I suppose that's where the fifty pounds went!"
"What fifty pounds?" Lucas asked, bewildered.
"Dear knows he gets little enough in the way of rents. Most of the farms were sold off long ago. But the Artingstalls at High Wick still pay rent faithfully, and I had reckoned that would do to give the servants their wages and buy a few provisions—no wonder I couldn't find it! He's gone and laid it on some cankered molting old rooster that probably couldn't even hop across the cockpit—"
Lucas, helping as best he could, asked in a subdued voice, "Do you mean that it was a wager, sir? Had Gar ridge put the money on a cockfight for him?"
"Yes. That's to say, if Garridge ever got as far as the cockfight and didn't pocket the stake himself," Mr. Oakapple said bitterly, "And if he did, doubtless he had some right. Lord knows when hid wages were last paid."
"Is that why Sir Randolph is so far behind with his taxes? Because he loses all his money on bets?"
"Of course! I doubt if he has won above five bets in the last five years—to judge by the papers in there." He jerked his head toward the bureau. "Bookmakers, horse races, prizefights, moneylenders—thousands and thousands squandered on dice games, steeplechases, card games—any kind of stake—even croquet matches." Furiously Mr. Oakapple scanned a crumpled old receipt—Lucas could just see the words, Worshipful Company of Bakers' Hot Cross Bun Eating Contest—and then tore it in half. "He'll spend all that on gambling, and yet he's too mean to have a decent fire anywhere in the house, or get the roof mended—"
"I see," Lucas murmured. Many things that he had been vaguely aware of during the past months now became intelligible to him. He was surprised, not so much at these disclosures about Sir Randolph as at the revelation of Mr. Oakapple's violent feelings on the matter. The tutor had hitherto seemed such a silent, unemotional, taciturn individual that it was a shock to see him in such a passion.