Mr. Campion's Farthing

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

Overture and Beginners

The Small Drawing Room at Inglewood, large in everything but name, was the only public apartment to show a feminine influence. It had been furnished once and for all by Sir Edwin on the advice of his sister and was based upon the style then prevailing at Balmoral, lightened with touches suggested by photographs of Sarah Bernhardt’s salon. Pink velvet drapes, tasselled at the edges, decorated the windows, the fireplace and the cozy corner; occasional tables stood by each chaise longue and the walls carried a burden of sunsets, highland livestock and autumnal glory by Farquharson, Yeend King and Landseer.

It was not at its best in midmorning for it had been designed for statuesque ladies seen by shaded lamps against a background of gentlemen in black with expanses of stiff white linen, making small talk about croquet and the Empire.

The young man who opened the curtained door and held it wide was dressed in sharply cut whipcord trousers and his jacket suggested a section of tartan seen under a magnifying glass.

His bright chestnut hair set off the delicacy of the complexion which sometimes goes with it. His voice was solemn and resonant.

“My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”

Silence greeted the announcement and after a pause he added, “How was that?”

His only audience, a girl who was sitting on the edge of a gilded settee by the fireplace, surveyed him thoughtfully.

“Rotten,” she said at last. “No good at all. In the first place the words have to be ‘Miss Charlotte, dinner is served,’ and in the second place, your accent is hopeless.”

The young man got very near to blushing and his forehead puckered. “Character part? They didn’t tell me that. How do you want it played? Wodehouse butler? Ancient retainer? Or do I go back to Pinero?”

His mentor wrinkled a ridiculously snub nose. “You’re not getting the picture at all, are you? Didn’t anyone at your Academy tell you what it’s all about? No? Well, if you haven’t been properly briefed I’ll have to go right through the whole rigmarole because it’s too late to get a replacement. Shut the door and sit down.”

He did as he was told, perching himself on an overstuffed rococo armchair. The girl had a small precise voice and she spoke like a governess trying to explain a point of etiquette to an intelligent child.

“Our weekend guests,” she said, “come here to get a rather offbeat brand of culture and half of them don’t understand what it’s all about anyway. We give them a vision of literary and artistic England as it was seventy-odd years ago. It has to be done completely deadpan as far as the staff are concerned. Don’t ever forget that. Mr. ‘Mbonga ‘Mbonga, the cultural attaché from Uravia, may not have a clue about what is going on and the Peruvian Minister of Fine Arts may be a bit adrift, but the Dutch and the Swedes take it all very seriously and some of the Germans are terrifyingly up on the period. We have to be pretty careful. The Americans are the keenest—they have the whole thing taped. They’ve read all the memoirs and can remember all the dates. They know it’s not quite for real but they are paying for an expensive illusion and they want it kept that way.”

For the first time the young man smiled.

“I suppose I couldn’t play it blackface? I have a very good ole Virginny ‘you-all’ act which might go—”

She was shocked.

“Certainly not. I don’t care if you were a riot at drama school as Othello or Time Honoured Lancaster or even Captain Shotover—get it into your flaming head that this is a bit part, only a shade better than a walk-on. No scene stealing at all—right?”

“Just a butler.”

“Just the butler. Lottie—Aunt Charlotte—likes it played absolutely straight. A very slight off-white accent, in case anyone has an ear for it, and that’s as far as you can go. A suggestion of the lower orders puts them at ease but keep your aitches in the right place. Respectful deference is the line as from an upper servant who’s been in good service all his life and expects to retire on a pension eked out by pocketing plenty of handsome tips. I’ll give you the rules about them later on, if you weren’t told before you came down.”

“I was told to treat the job like a ‘special week.’ That means joining a repertory company for just one part, if you don’t know. Martin Halliday who takes us for mime told me I could do it on my head.”

The girl frowned. “Martin may be an old friend of Lottie’s, but he’s sometimes as stupid as an ox. The last boy he sent us was Timothy Brain who’s playing a juvenile lead in town now. He was a total disaster. After I’d drilled him for two whole days he turned up at dinner on the first evening wearing side-whiskers and a false bald top to his head, using a quavering voice as if he was over ninety and had no roof to his mouth. The Arts Advisory Circle from Pakistan who were staying here saw through him in ten seconds and were bitterly offended. We had been hoping to flog them an autographed set of Swinburne first editions and the whole weekend was a dead loss. Now do you get the message? There’s only one star in this show and that’s Lottie Cambric. She puts a year or two onto her age so that she can trot out stories of Sir Edwin as if she had heard them at first hand, but otherwise she doesn’t cheat at all. Our guests pay through the nose for their two days of Victorian culture and luxury—they expect value for money. If you’re not prepared to behave you can pack up now and I can save my breath about the work that has to be done. And, of course, the tipping system.”

The young man nodded contritely. He had, he decided, been mistaken in his first impression: the girl had much more to her than he had supposed from her appearance. Her blond curls were gathered in a bang over her forehead and her blue eyes were very large and round. But the prim baby face was deceptive: there was power and intelligence behind the mask which called for respect. He surveyed her thoughtfully from her frilled white blouse with its high collar held by a cameo brooch to the closely fitting scarlet trousers which did justice to the curves they encased. The mixture of old and new puzzled him for although it was not deliberately shocking it was certainly unlikely.

She followed his thoughts. “This rig-out,” she said. “The top is a fixture for the day. I have to slip into a long skirt in a minute or two because a party of tourists from the Middle West is arriving at eleven. We do quite a big business like that. I’m the guide. They see the main rooms, the library, the manuscripts, the paintings and pay six shillings extra for coffee and seed cake. Sherry is free to avoid licensing trouble. It’s hard work.”

Suddenly he felt at ease, safe enough to give a smile which acknowledged the common ground of age and interest.

“I’ll be good,” he said. “What do I call you in business hours?”

“Miss Perdita. My name’s Perdita Louise Browning. Lottie always says ‘She’s one of the Brownings, you know,’ in a sort of throw away line and never explains. In fact, I’m no relation of the poet, not even an illegit descendant which is what she implies. You’ll be called ‘Mr. Rupert’ by the rest of the staff and ‘Burbage’ by me and Lottie.”

“But it’s not my name,” he protested. “At least, Burbage isn’t.”

“All the butlers here are called Burbage. It’s partly to save trouble and partly because Sir Edwin’s man had that name and it appears in several memoirs. You’re generally supposed to be a grandson or a great-nephew: we don’t labour the point. If you’re asked you say you understand there’s some connection and leave it at that.”

“What about tips, Miss Perdita? Martin Halliday said they were very good.”

She laughed. “The tipping system is very important because we get a share and it really pays most of our wages. This is the drill: I spot the likely house guests when they arrive for the weekend and tell them the secret of comfort here is to give Burbage a fiver straight away and then they’ll really be looked after. Lottie’s rather mean with drinks after dinner and you explain discreetly that you can fix a bottle of whisky or whatever else they happen to want, in their bedrooms. You imply that it is your own private supply and has to be smuggled in, though in fact it is all house property and part of the service. After that you play it by ear. Some of the Embassy people have fabulous expense accounts—the Benelux people are the best—but you’ll be expected to come clean about the takings. The same applies to sin.”

“Sin?”

“Bedroom frolics.”

Her practical approach made it clear that she was not abashed.

“The occasional spot of nooky after hours. We put the likely couples in the west wing where rooms on each floor are connected by a private spiral staircase in one of the turrets. You or Babette—she’s permanent here, her name’s Beatrix Faversham, an ex-rep actress who does the French maid and arranges the hip baths and copper hot water jugs—explain the layout if the need arises. Most of our regulars, the cultural attaché lot, know all about it, but it is as well to keep your eyes open. They have to do something, poor darlings, because it can get dreadfully drear if they’ve been bear-leading a very serious-minded party who don’t speak the English so good. Lottie’s small talk is pretty splendid and we generally have a minor literary lion or a professor of something or other—who gets paid—to help out. But a real gaggle of culture vultures can be crackingly dull if you’ve heard it all before.

“After dinner, the ladies assemble for cards or conversation in the big drawing room or the Music Room, which is off it. When the gentlemen join them a nip of brandy is served with the coffee. You bid Lottie a ceremonial and very pointed good night at ten o’clock sharp. ‘Will you be requiring anything further from the decanters tonight, madame?’ ‘Thank you, Burbage, nothing more. You may retire.’ ‘Goodnight, madame.’ That usually shuts them up and leaves you free to collect as much dough as you can by discreet upstairs service. Some of the bedrooms have anterooms and you can serve as much as you like. By the way, this is the only time ice is allowed except for cooling. You must imply that it’s all strictly illegal and you’re risking a great deal to oblige your guests. If you play the scene properly it’s foolproof. Remember, it is tax-free and represents a lot of the profit we make, so use your loaf. I’ll be there to help out if necessary, certainly until you get the hang of it.”

“What about my uniform? I was told that the job was ‘all found.’ Do I wear a livery with crested buttons?”

She shook her head. “No trouble at all. I can fit you from the wardrobe. Tails and black waistcoat for evening. Striped waistcoat and green baize apron or an alpaca jacket for token appearances in the morning. The real cleaning and polishing is done by real staff during the week but vacuum cleaners are not allowed in front of guests or visiting parties. There’s a genuine 1900 Bissel sweeper which is purely ornamental and a lot more props in the way of feather dusters and so on. As Burbage, you only supervise the working staff when you’re ‘on stage,’ so to speak, and keep right out of their way all the rest of the time. They’re paid extra for dressing up in caps and aprons and long black skirts but even so, very strict trade union rules apply, so don’t…”

She stopped abruptly, listening.

“Lottie’s on her way. I hope she takes to you. Good luck.”

The door opened and Miss Charlotte Cambric made, as she always did, a perfect entrance.

She was plump and petite with a mass of white curls piled high above a face dominated by very dark eyes under acutely arched eyebrows. The young man’s first impression was that her rustling grey silks came straight from a du Maurier cartoon in Punch and that only a monstrous quirk of fate had prevented her from being a duchess of the period. Instinctively he stood to his full height and regretted the virulence of his jacket.

She paused at the doorway; surveyed him with unconcealed appraisal and allowed a moment to pass before she produced a conquering smile of welcome.

“So you are Rupert,” she said. “You have your mother’s hair.” Her voice was clear and infinitely modulated, giving each sentence a quality which suggested that it might conceal an epigram. “I hope Perdita has told you all you need to know because repetitions are devastatingly tedious.”

“She’s been very easy to understand, so far. I hope I’ll give satisfaction, ma’am.”

Her laugh had an embrace which was inescapable.

“I hope so, too. We’ve had some terrifying Burbages lately. Young men trained, if that’s the word, as Method actors. They got all their moves wrong and one wonders if they could ever hold a real part, even carrying a spear for Henry Irving.”

She took his arm. “Now come over here because your first task is nothing to do with playing a butler.”

She propelled him gently towards one of the windows, a Gothic needle heavy with leaded glass. The room was on the first floor and looked towards the rising ground behind the house. An avenue of poplars and laurels led the eye to the focal point of view, a rounded grass mound on the top of which was an oblong stone structure heavily ornamented and surmounted by a marble urn too large for its plinth.

“Sir Edwin’s tomb,” she explained. “He designed it himself. Not that he’s buried there, poor man. He died very conveniently in India and saved us a lot of complications. Now, look carefully just below it and to your left—do you see anything?”

Rupert took his time before answering. The September morning promised heat, but the sun had not broken through and the still air was misty.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I do. There’s a man hiding in the bushes.”

Miss Cambric snorted. “Whoever he is, he’s up to no good or he’d have gone to the servants’ entrance. He’s been hanging round the house for the last half hour. This is strictly a job for a gardener but poor old Colt is too deaf to deal with interlopers. Rupert, do you think you could see him off the grounds? Perhaps it would be best if you gave him a lee-etle bit of a fright.”

“Strong-arm stuff?”

She shook her dancing curls. “Bless you, no, boy. There’s a much better way than that if he’s the sort of trespasser I think he is. I hate getting out of period but sometimes one has to be modern. Perdita, I sneaked into your room just now and borrowed your camera. It’s on the table outside, looking atrociously out of place. Would you be very kind and lend it to our new Burbage?”

The girl had been watching the garden from behind the curtains of the larger window. She let the heavy drapes fall back and turned, wide-eyed.

“Of course. Only it isn’t loaded. I’ve run out of film.”

The thought did not disturb Miss Cambric. “That’s of no importance. All I want Burbage—you must get used to the name, Rupert—to do is to take a snap of the creature, or pretend to, and then ask him his business. If he’s a policeman—which heaven forbid—he won’t mind in the least. If he’s some other sort of official, who’s come to examine the drains or the rateable value he’ll stand his ground and Perdita will see him if he makes an appointment in writing. If he’s what I’m afraid he might be, he’ll make a dash for it and we must all hope that we won’t see him again. Surprise, as Uncle Edwin used to say, is nine points of attack. Go down the Grand Stairs, through the kitchens and the courtyard, sneak along the wall by the herb garden and you’ll be right on him before he can move.”

The Small Drawing Room provided a dress circle view of the entire episode. In two minutes the young man emerged at the top of the laurel-lined slope and began edging cautiously towards his quarry.

“He’s getting warm,” said Perdita. “The man’s just by the Tomb. I saw him move.”

At that distance the thin mist was beginning to blur details but as the young man halted and raised the camera his shout came clearly to the waiting women.

The laurels parted to reveal broad shoulders beneath a dark square-cut head and for a moment the two men confronted each other. Very slowly the stranger extracted himself from the bushes and took a couple of paces forward. Then he bent from the waist and charged like a bull. Rupert, with the camera at eye level, was knocked completely off balance by the assault.

He staggered and tripped backwards onto the rising ground. The attack was undignified but remarkably successful. The heavy man kicked almost casually at the figure on the ground, giving the blow just enough force to prevent retaliation, snatched at the fallen camera and flung it viciously against the wall of the Tomb. Almost before it smashed he began to run and within seconds he had vanished into the dim shrubberies beyond.

“Good grief,” said Miss Cambric. “That poor boy. He’s not seriously hurt—just winded, I think. Yes, he’s standing up. I do hope he doesn’t form an unfavourable impression of us. I rather took to him, despite his hair. So much more suitable on a woman. He reminds me…”

She broke off, realizing that she was alone.

Perdita was halfway down the Grand Staircase.