Fiançailles

18

Fiançailles

   Sixteen gowns lay scattered around Kitty’s bedroom. Susi-Anna and Jenny had been briskly dispatched to Miss Burden: their red-faced pleas that it was not either a foreign conversation afternoon or a time at which Jenny was expected had been ignored. The Major had been ordered to absent himself and, as an afterthought, to take Addie with him. Miss Harrod had indulged in a burst of tears but no-one, least of all Kitty, had bothered to ascertain whether these might be of disappointment, or anticipated joy. The Major had decided to tool the curricle over towards Verne Lea, for possibly Cornwallis would care for a game of billiards. The shrinking Miss Harrod not daring to say that Mrs Patterson would hardly care to waste her afternoon entertaining her humble self while the gentlemen played billiards, they duly set off.

    The garment eventually chosen was the pale green Indian muslin with the silver motifs. It became Kitty, it had had a demonstrated effect on His Royal Highness, and it was one of her prettiest. In the larger withdrawing-room the long white curtains billowed in the gentle breeze at the open French windows; bowls of roses filled the air with a delightful perfume. The room was warm, gracious and feminine; and with the vines on the terrace outside it in full leaf it had the added advantage, which Kitty was not aware that His Royal Highness had spotted, of being sufficiently dim to flatter a lady’s complexion.

    When the Prince arrived, it was in form: there was the most tremendous clatter of hooves on the gravelled sweep and Kitty deserted the chaise longue to rush to the window and peer from behind that convenient white gauze at the curve of the front drive. He was in the barouche—alone, thank God—but with four... outriders. There was no other word for them, really: the most splendid uniforms: great fur hats of the sort his servants wore, but with the most dashing of hussars’ uniforms: deep purple, frogged, braided and epauletted, with fur-lined cloaks thrown back over the shoulders. Well!

    The sweltering figures within the frogging were Harold Hartington in person (he had not been able to resist the temptation of accompanying Sid) and Messrs Paul Pouteney, Vyvyan Fitzwallis, and Morley Masterson, hitherto glimpsed by the inhabitants of Dinsley Dell and environs only in the non-speaking rôles of third, etcetera, footmen. Not very much different, it the truth were known, from the rôles in which they were wont to grace the boards of the great metropolis. Samuel Speede himself, in the persona of Ivan Petrovich, was on the box, red beard well to the fore and a chestful of medals flashing (there being no discernible reason why His Highness’s driver should not be a retired Cossack); and the two footmen up behind were, of course, those noted young second leads, Geoffrey Mainwaring and David Darlinghurst, as the Romanovich brothers. His Highness himself was glorious in the full regimentals of, possibly, a Cossack Field-Marshal. The entire military wardrobes of both The Empress and the Muscovite and The Russian Avenger, or, Blood on the Steppes had been pressed into service.

    Kitty was again reclining on the chaise longue when His Highness was shown in.

    “Pray do not get up,” he said, coming to bow very low over her hand.

    “Oh—Prince,” said Kitty faintly.

    She did not ask him to sit, so Sid drew up a chair for himself. “How enchanting you look today, my dove,” he said in his deepest tones.

    Kitty fluttered her lashes a little, lowered them modestly and said, laying a hand to the well-supported, if well-displayed bosom: “Oh—Prince.”

    Sid began to wonder madly if the woman intended to say anything else at all today. Apart, presumably, from “Yes” if he popped the question. It reminded him forcibly of that ghastly time that Mrs Julia Westmoreland had broken her leg and the understudy, the same Gloriana Grosvenor who had recently turned down the rôle of non-speaking Russian maid, had had to go on unprepared. Well, she had been supposed to be prepared, but getting up in her lines was not Miss Grosvenor’s forte. She had managed: “Oh, sir!” and that was about it: Sid had had to give forth with all of her lines as well as his own. He had said: “If you mean—” and “I collect you mean—” and “Madam, can you mean—” something like five hundred times in the course of the piece.

    Doubtless he could just have said “Will you?” and Mrs Marsh would have said “Yes,” but he supposed he had better make some sort of an effort at courtship. So he took her hand again and said, very low: “I h’am so privileged that you should receive me alone. Do you know,”—a speaking look from the heavily-fringed grey eyes—“that this summer ’as been the happiest off my life?”

    “Oh—Prince,” said Kitty faintly.

    In spite of his years of experience on the boards Sid Bottomley was on a sudden possessed of a mad desire to laugh, and had to swallow before he could go on. “Indeed,” he said gravely. “The district is so vairy pretty—but that is not it.” –A speaking look.

    “No?” said Kitty faintly.

    “No. And the weather has been pairfect—but that is not it. And the kind people hereabouts have made me vairy, vairy welcome—but that is not it, either.” –Another speaking look.

    “Oh, Prince,” said Kitty, her bosom heaving. “I am sure one is very gratified to know you have been happy in our little community.”

    “Certainement,” said Sid, suddenly recollecting that the rôle required he should be larding his conversation with French phrases. “But with all these kind calls and invitations it ’as been h’impossible to speak to you alone as I would wish, ma belle.”

    “Oh, Prince,” she said softly, fluttering the lashes very much. “But we are alone now.”

    “Yes,” said Sid, mumbling kisses into her hand. –Supposing he were to come to a dead halt now, would the bitch prompt him?

    After some considerable time and some considerable bosom-heaving, which he did not fancy was all faked, for there was a discernible flush on her cheek, she whispered: “You are being very naughty. sir. I do not think you should kiss my hand quite so.”

    “Hush, mon ange, mon adorée, I h’am in Paradise!” he breathed, kissing the wrist instead. Her perfume was very heavy and sweet, with something acrid behind the sweetness. There was a lot of it on the wrist: he came up for air, smiled into her eyes, and whispered: “Has it h’also been a happy summer for you, ma belle?”

    Actually, it had been agonising. What with Jarvis’s damned note, and weeks on end wondering if she had any hope of him at all, and then His Highness’ seeming to blow hot and cold— “It has been exquisite, Prince,” she whispered.

    “Aah,” sighed Sid, kissing the wrist again. Musk, he thought it must be. Probably picked the habit up in India. “My most beautiful angel, you must know h’it ’as been your presence here that has made h’it so wonderful for me.”

    “Oh, Prince!” sighed Kitty.

    Sid gave her a sly look from under his lashes. “Hélas, vairy soon I must go h’away—”

    “What?” she gasped, as her heart gave a startled leap.

    “Yes: did I not say that Sir Noël Amory ’as vairy kindly invited me to Thevenard Manor for a leetle shooting h’in August?”

    “Oh,” she said limply.

    “So, even although it h’is a leetle soon, pair’aps I may be permitted to speak now, ma belle, if you will not think it disrespectful?”

     “N— Y— Um—of course not!” she gasped. “I mean, pray do!”

    Sid grinned to himself: that had thrown a scare into the cow! Good, she’d be all the less likely to ask him for a statement of his assets—the which, Mr Hartington had pointed out as they rolled through the gates of Dinsley House, she might well feel prompted to do.

    “You must know that my feelings for you go far beyond mere friendship, my most beautiful one,” he murmured. “May I venture to ask, do you possibly reciprocate?”

    Many ladies might have said “Yes” straight out to this one: he watched with interest to see what her reply would be.

    “Oh, Prince!” said Kitty faintly. “I—I scarce know what to say...”

    That was a good one, acknowledged Sid silently. Said absolutely nothin’, implied whatever you liked. Didn’t commit her to a thing. “Say that you will take pity on a poor, lonely foreigner, ma belle!” he urged,

    “Oh—Prince...”

    Yes, well, that didn’t commit her, either. Though it hinted plain enough to those what could read between the lines that the gentleman had best make it pretty damn’ clear he intended lawful matrimony if he expected to get anywhere with the lady.

    “I—I confess that I am your slave forever, my darling,” he said, allowing the voice to shake artistically. “But we ’ave seen so vairy leetle off each other, in truth. I would wish the reassurance that—that you could care for me, just a—a leetle?” –In other words, Madam, you had better damn’ well come clean!

    Kitty fluttered her lashes very much and replied in a low voice: “I—I must confess I am not entirely indifferent to Your Royal Highness.”

    “Oh, my adored one!” cried Sid, falling gracefully onto one knee before her and seizing the hand again. And proceeding to shower kisses on it.

    After quite some time she whispered: “Oh! This is so— But you must not, truly, my very dear Prince. I am a respectable widow, you know.”

    Damnation, thought Sid Bottomley: that was a guinea he owed Harold Hartington. For he himself had bet she would not produce that phrase until after he had got considerably more familiar. Oh, well, might as well get it over with. He looked up, doing some considerable eyelash-work of his own, and whispered huskily: “But I vairy much ’ope you will not be a widow for much longer, mon ange. May I dare to hope that you will do me the vairy great honour off becoming my princess?” –The actors had had an argument as to whether this particular phrase would render any possible suit for breach of promise null and void. Given that Sid was not actually of Royal lineage. Even though the consensus had been “No”, they had decided he had better use it.

    Kitty’s heart swelled in triumph, her cheeks flushed brightly, and she gasped: “Me? Oh, but I am nobody, sir! Oh, you do me too much honour!”

    In that case he could propose t’other thing, it would be no bother. “My most perfect flower, say yes!” he begged, looking up at her adoringly.

    “Oh, Prince! I... Well, yes,” she murmured. Loud enough not to be misunderstood, though.

    Sid knelt up and breathed: “My sacred angel: you will nevaire live to regret this moment. I swear it on the graves off my ancestors!” –Out of The Russian Avenger, but he’d take a bet Kitty Marsh would not recognize it as belonging to the villainous Count Dombrovsky, he whose blood the Russian Avenger duly spilt on the Steppes.

    “Oh, Prince!” she gasped as he swept her into his arms and kissed her fiercely, à la Count Dombrovsky. It was not half good, actually.

    “How far did you go?” asked Harold Hartington, grinning, as he pocketed the guinea on their return to Dinsley Airs.

    Sid threw himself onto a sofa and leaned back, linking his arms behind his head with a grin. “Got one hand down the bosom, and one hand”—he waggled his eyebrows—“between the thighs.”

    “Ooh!” gasped Mr Vyvyan Fitzwallis.

    “Don’t get excited,” warned the actor-manager drily.

    “Did you get a finger up her, Sid?” asked Samuel Speede baldly.

    “Oh, Lud: that would have been quite indelicate, with a lady like she is,” he drawled.

    “Did you?” repeated Mr Speede stolidly.

    “No. She was shudderin’ all over as it was. Anyway, it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly.”

    “That’s what I said,” agreed Mr Speede stolidly, holding out his hand,

    Pouting, Messrs Vyvyan Fitzwallis and David Darlinghurst each put a shilling into it, while Mr Morley Masterson, sighing heavily, contributed a sixpence.

    “Sixpence?” queried Harold Hartington, raising his eyebrows.

    “You ain’t payin’ me for a speaking rôle!” retorted the young actor smartly.

    “What about you two?” said the actor-manager, unmoved, to Messrs Geoffrey Mainwaring and Paul Pouteney.

    “He don’t bet, Harold,” Mr Pouteney reminded him. “And I,” he noted, preening himself, “am more fly nor some. I knew he would not, not right on top of the proposal, when he was playing a prince.”

    “We thank you,” noted Sid graciously.

    Mr Darlinghurst, as the furrows in the brow denoted, had been mulling the scene over. “So where were her hands, Sid?”

    Ignoring the fact that Harold Hartington and Samuel Speede had choked, Sid replied insouciantly: “Part of the time one of her hands was on me breeches, David. That what you wanted to hear?”

    “Yes,” he said simply.

    “Well, she is a widow,” said Mr Hartington tolerantly.

    “Mm,” agreed Sid on a dry note.

    “Oh?”

    “Personally I felt it was stretchin’ the bounds of credibility, y’know, for her to just let the hand lie there until yours truly, er, demonstrated what would be more pleasurable.”

    “Lacks verisimilitude: aye,” agreed the actor-manager solemnly.

    “Maybe she was feeling shy,” offered Mr Mainwaring.

    “Get out of here,” groaned Harold Hartington.

    “Even a widow might feel shy, the first time a gent—um—you know.”

    “Not this widow,” said the actor-manager definitely.

    Sid stood up. “No. –Think I’ll get out of this damned uniform.’

    “Hang on: did you let her pleasure you?” demanded Mr Speede.

    “Which answer will get you more shillings, Sam?” he drawled. “Ouch!” he gasped, dodging a flying Russian cushion. “No, well, I could have, but I didn’t, because on the whole I didn’t think I could have taken her maidenly confusion without bursting out laughing.” He shrugged, and wandered out.

    “See?” said Mr Speede simply, holding out his hand.

    Scowling horribly, Mr Vyvyan Fitzwallis handed over another shilling.

    Mr David Darlinghurst and Mr Morley Masterson had both been too fly to take that bet; they smirked.

    Mr Darlinghurst had been dispatched to Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s house with a message, in the company of Mr Paul Pouteney who, as witness his refusing to bet with Sam Speede, had a trifle more nous than the rest of ’em. That this had been a wise precaution was proven when they reached the doorstep of Nettleford House, and Mr Darlinghurst had a panick.

    “They’ll expect us to talk Russian!”

    “Leave it to me-sky,” said Mr Pouteney, giving a tremendous rat-tat on the knocker.

    The door was opened by a pink-faced footman of about his own age. “Lard!” he gulped to the uniforms.

    Mr Pouteney bowed very low. “Hoible-groible bosky-woyksy dombrovksy oivich? Bottomley-Pugh.” He held out the note from Sid. “Mushy dushyer.”

    “Monsieur Bottomley-Pugh, noi,” confirmed Mr Darlinghurst limply.

    The footman took the note and tottered inside.

    “Paul, we’re not supposed to understand English!” hissed Mr Darlinghurst. “What if he says something when he comes back?”

    Mr Pouteney merely looked bland.

    “I knew this whole thing was a mad idea,” moaned Mr Darlinghurst.

    “Shutsky itsky,” replied Mr Pouteney out of the corner of his mouth.

    Mr Darlinghurst was glumly silent.

    The footman returned. “Come—in!” he said loudly, gesturing them in.

    Mr Pouteney, well into his rôle, refrained from throwing his companion a triumphant glance. He gave a flourishing bow, replied insouciantly: “Mushy dushyer,” and went in. Mr Darlinghurst followed, smiling weakly.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh, all smiles, received them in the red salon. “That’s roight, lads, come along in!” he said loudly, with the appropriate gesture. “’Ere, you, ’Enry, fetch these foreign fellers something to eat.”

    “Yessir. Um—what, sir?”

    “Well, it’s a warm day,” he said with a tolerant glance at their sweltering forms in the footman’s frogged coat and the hussar’s tight jacket and fur-trimmed cloak. “Dare say a couple o’ pints of good English ale would not come amiss.”

    “Beef and horseradish sandwiches,” put in Mr Vaughan hoarsely from his position by the mantelpiece.

    “Aye, why not?” agreed his father mildly.

    “Yes, sir,” agreed the footman. He eyed the foreigners dubiously, but exited with his message.

    “Beef and horseradish sandwiches?” spluttered Mr Vaughan’s progenitor.

    Mr Vaughan grinned. “Goes with the English ale, Pa! –Hullo. Which ones are you?” he said to the actors.

    Mr Pouteney bowed very low. “Paul Pouteney, at your service, sir. Ever ready to take on your Romantick hero, your swashbuckler, or your Dev’lishly attractive villain, and experienced in all the theatres of the great—”

    “That’ll do, lad,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh tolerantly.

    “—metropolis. And this is my esteemed colleague, David Darlinghurst,” added Mr Pouteney, unabashed. “Unmatched, if I may say so, in the minor rôles of our lighter English comedies. At present, non-speaking, as Ilya Romanovich, manservant to His Highness, Alexei Alexandrovich Petrovsky.”

    “Speaking!” he corrected crossly, pouting.

    “Not noticeably, David,” returned Mr Pouteney smoothly.

    “Now that’ll be enough o’ that,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh, shaking slightly. “Sit you down, the pair of you. This here note of Sid’s says ’e’s done it: that right?”

    “Yes,” admitted Mr Pouteney simply.

    “She said yes,” explained Mr Darlinghurst.

    Mr Vaughan choked.

    “Well, yes, that was the expected outcome,” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh kindly.

    “So what’s next, sir?” asked Mr Pouteney.

    “Well, if I were in your boots, lad, next would be takin’ off that blamed fur cloak.”

    Grinning, Mr Pouteney did so, explaining: “One suffers for one’s art in the profession, sir. You get so as you hardly notice it.”

    “Aye,” he agreed with a wry glance at the red-faced Mr Darlinghurst. “That frock-coat’s solid English broadcloth, is it, lad?”

    Jumping slightly, Mr Darlinghurst conceded it was. It had been used for Sir Deveril Dawlish in A Wife For Sale, or, The Bad Baronet, before they had turned it into a Cossack’s coat for The Empress and the Muscovite.

    Nodding, Mr Bottomley-Pugh sat down. “They’re more practical than what you moight think, these actor fellows,” he noted to Vaughan.

    Mr Vaughan had not actually concluded that “practical” was a word that could have been applied to Mr Darlinghurst, so he blinked slightly.

    “Now, Sid and Harold are betting,” explained Mr Bottomley-Pugh generally, “that the next thing’ll be a demand to see ’is assets.”

    Mr Pouteney choked.

    “Ar, well, them, too!” agreed the stout merchant, shaking all over. “No, but she’ll be thinkin’ of settlements and so forth, you see.”

    Vaughan and Mr Darlinghurst both nodded respectfully, but Mr Pouteney noted sapiently: “She may think, but given that he’s conferring a great position upon her, it wouldn’t be entirely unknown in the circumstances for the gent to demand a hefty settlement of the lady afore they get to the altar.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh eyed him with considerable approval. “Lad, you’re not wrong.”

    “Yes, but if Uncle Sid does that—” began Vaughan.

    “It might scare ’er off,” agreed Mr Pouteney smoothly. “True. But on the other hand, it depends on what she really wants out of ’im, don’t it? A title and a position might do.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh scratched his chins. “Aye, but we don’t want to risk scaring her off.”

    “No: she has to get at least to the stage of publicising the engagement and holding a slap-up party for the entire county!” explained Mr Vaughan, his eyes sparkling.

    “Ar. We want ’er to rub their noses in it. We’d better let her get at least a glimpse of some assets,” admitted his father. “But a bit later, if she starts sniffin’ around too hard, Sid can admit the estates in Russia is mortgaged to the hilt and let to—what did Kate say?” he suddenly demanded of his heir.

    Blinking slightly, Mr Vaughan produced: “Um—a merchant from Tomsk, I think, Pa.”

    “Aye!” he choked. “—That’s what they’re sayin’ at Maunsleigh ’e must be,” he explained to the actors. “Seems we made a fatal error in not makin’ sure Sid brung a note from the Russian Embassy to introduce hisself to the Earl.”

    “Help!” gasped Mr Darlinghurst in fright.

    “It ain’t bad,” said Mr Pouteney thoughtfully.

    “No, exact!” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh, chuckling. “Ssh!” he added as the door opened to admit the footman with a tray.

    Mr Darlinghurst was reduced to a faint: “Mushy dushyer,” but Mr Pouteney beamed upon the footman and said brightly: “Koishy gruble-ovsky moible-oible wopsy-oivich! Noi! Mushy dushyer! –Mushy, mushy dushyer, monsieur,” he added politely to his host.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh, a gleam in his eye, replied: “Oh, not at all, sir: my pleasure. Do help yourselves, pray.” With the appropriate gesture.

    “I suppose you’ve never considered taking to the boards yourself, sir? One can see it runs in the family,” noted Mr Pouteney as the door closed behind Henry.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh glanced at his puce-faced heir. “Sort of. –Well, no, I was always interested in business, you see, lad. –Dig in, Vaughan, there’s plenty.”

    All four of them helping themselves to English ale and roast-beef sandwiches, conversation languished for a little.

    “Now,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh, “Sid says in ’is note as you two young fellers can tell me about this ’ere Greenstreet and his friend Mr Weeble.”

    Mr Darlinghurst gave a horrified gasp. “Keep away from him, sir!”

    “He means Weeble. He’s a moneylender. And a fence. Slimy bit of work,” explained Mr Pouteney. “Though if you were wanting a trifle in the way of a forged paper—as it were, a marriage licence—he is your man.” He looked at Mr Bottomley-Pugh expectantly.

    “Well, you’re on the right track, lad,” said that worthy kindly. “Though it ain’t a licence as we needs, but the odd deed or two. And a letter of credit or some such.”

    “Weeble can certainly put you in touch with the right fellow, then. Only David’s right: you want to watch out for him.”

    “He’s a blackmailer,” said Mr Darlinghurst through trembling lips.

    “David, the whole company told you,” said Mr Pouteney heavily, “that that lady was too married for her own good, and that them as are not quite up to snuff did not ought to lay siege to that particular type of citadel. –But would ’e listen?” he said exasperatedly to the Bottomley-Pughs. “So up comes Weeble to the very stage-door itself—cheek o’ the Devil,” he noted by the by—“and says: ‘My very dear Mr Darlinghurst, far be it from me to throw a rub in the path of True Affection, but I feel it my bounden duty, sir, to apprise that lady’s husband that her virtue has suffered mortal damage.’ –When he calls you his ‘very dear’, watch out,” he explained.

    Mr Vaughan was nodding seriously, looking awed, but the sapient Mr Bottomley-Pugh enquired simply: “So what were the husband, then?”

    “Ah! That is just it, sir! A prize-fighter, sixteen stone if an ounce, and solid muscle!”

    Mr Vaughan gave a gasp of horror, what time Mr Bottomley-Pugh eyed the red-faced Mr Darlinghurst with interest, noting: “Hard to see how you could have made it worse for yourself, lad.”

    “So we all said,” agreed Mr Pouteney. “Well, that’s Weeble for you, sir.”

    “Is he a Jew?” asked Mr Vaughan with great interest: Mr Pouteney’s impersonation had been positively riveting, not to say tending towards the Semitic.

    “No. Comes from Basingstoke,” said the young actor blandly.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh said hastily: “Well, thanks for the warning, lad, but if he can fudge us up a good-looking deed or two, he’ll do.”

    Mr Pouteney rubbed his elegant nose. “If I were you, I’d speak to Fred Greenstreet first. If you don’t want a close facsimile of the genuine article you might avoid Weeble altogether.”

    “Hm. Well, we wasn’t thinking of passing ’em off to no courts or nothing. I’d better get straight on up to London meself. –Yes, you can come.” he said as Mr Vaughan opened his mouth eagerly.

    “Ooh, thanks, Pa!”

    “And you d better come with us, Mr Pouteney.”

    “Delighted, sir.”

    “Pa, what about Katerina?” asked Vaughan.

    “I ain’t takin’ her next or nigh no Weebles!” he said in horror.

    “Not that. No, I meant that’ll leave her alone in the house.”

    “Hey? Oh—damnation, so it will. Um—she’d better go to your Aunt Hyacinth.”

    “She won’t like that,” predicted Vaughan with a wince.

    “Never moind: she can’t stay ’ere by ’erself.” He rang the bell. “Where is she, anyroad?”

    Mr Vaughan had begun to explain that she was in the garden when Henry appeared and was told off by his master to fetch her. In the interval Mr Bottomley-Pugh demanded testily of his heir why he had not said earlier that Kate was but in the garden, for she could have been in on all of it. Mr Vaughan had just begun vigorously to defend himself when the door opened again.

    “Kate, me love,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh eagerly: “your Uncle Sid has done it, and Mrs Marsh has agreed to marry him!”

    “Pa!” gasped Katerina in tones of unalloyed horror.

    “Eh? It’s what we planned, me love— Oh, ’elp,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh numbly, belatedly perceiving she was not alone.

    “Pa, I was trying to tell you she had a visitor!” cried Vaughan desperately as Katerina came in, followed by a bright-eyed Janey Lattersby.

    “You idiot, Vaughan!” he shouted.

    “It’s not my fault: I was trying to warn you!” cried Vaughan.

    “You did not try hard enough, I perceive, Mr Vaughan!” said Janey with a naughty giggle. She looked from the Russian uniforms to the Bottomley-Pughs’ horror-stricken faces, and back again. “It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it? I collect that His Highness is not a merchant from Tomsk after all, but Katerina’s Uncle Sid: is that correct?”

    Mr Pouteney up until this instant had been hoping that something might be saved from the wreckage: worse things had happened on stage, even within the short span of his own career: there was that time that Mr Hartington’s breeches had started to descend in the middle of his big scene, and that other time, almost as bad, when the Russian Avenger’s beard had caught on a Russian flambeau just when the Steppes were about to run blood. He gave a hollow groan, and sank back down onto his chair.

    “Janey is utterly trustworthy, Pa,” said Katerina limply.

    “That’s just as well, ain’t it?” he retorted, with a glare at his heir.

    “I promise I shall not breathe a word, Mr Bottomley-Pugh!” said Janey with a gurgle. “But I insist on knowing the whole! And who are they all?” she added, staring at the uniforms.

    “Actors. Uncle Sid’s on the stage,” said Vaughan gloomily. “Don’t tell Miss Burden, will you? It’s all for her sake.”

    “That’s said it all,” noted his father numbly.

    Of course it had not, quite, but after that it did not take very long at all before Janey was fully in the picture. She clapped her hands delightedly, and embraced Mr Bottomley-Pugh heartily. “Of course I shall not breathe a word! It is the most wonderful thing I ever heard of! Even better than—” She broke off.

    “Pa knows,” said Katerina, reddening. “I’m sorry, Janey, but in the circumstances—”

    “Oh, absolutely!” she agreed. “He deserved to know!” She beamed upon Mr Bottomley-Pugh, but added: “And in that case you must see, sir, that it’s all the more important that Miss Burden should never know of this masquerade. For it would be so like her to take it into her head to feel sorry for the woman, and tell her the whole.”

    “Exact,” he agreed with a sigh, perceiving that his daughter’s estimate of little Miss Janey’s brain-power had been correct.

    And very soon after that Janey had decided that she and Katerina must accompany Mr Bottomley-Pugh, Mr Vaughan and Mr Pouteney up to town to see Mr Greenstreet: they could all stay with Uncle Umberto, and it would work out perfectly, because Lady Judith had a series of tedious tea-parties lined up for Miss Burden, and this would enable her, Janey, to miss out on them!

    Reflecting that if she was out of Miss Burden’s orbit for a while she would not be able to give way to the temptation to drop hints, Mr Bottomley-Pugh agreed to this. With the mental reservation that neither of ’em was going anywheres near anything that even looked like a Weeble. But this Greenstreet didn’t sound so bad, so he’d stretch a point, there.

    The Bottomley-Pughs had not known quite what to expect of Miss Lattersby’s Italian uncle, but though he tended distinctly towards the flashing-eyed, being a tall, handsome, dark-haired fellow with a Roman nose, he spoke perfect English and presented a quiet and gentlemanly appearance. The d’Annunzio family, in fact, had been settled in England for three generations. Four, if you counted Umberto d’Annunzio’s very new grandson. The d’Annunzio house was large and commodious and in a most respectable, if not fashionable, part of the town, and Mr Bottomley-Pugh realized almost at once that Umberto d’Annunzio was as an astute and nearly as successful a businessman as he was himself. And an artist besides: they were taken to the emporium modestly referred to by the family as “the shop” to see some of the jewellery and goldsmithing produced by Umberto, his sons and his nephews, and gasped over its fineness.

    The d’Annunzios were thrilled to have Janey come to visit, and Mrs d’Annunzio (Aunt Rosa: a very pretty Italian lady whose accent, unlike her husband’s, was very exotic indeed), the grown-up Cousins Roberto, Alfredo and Enrico (Bob, Alfie and Harry: even more English in speech and manner, in spite of their dashing dark looks, than their father), pretty Miss d’Annunzio (Cousin Anna), and even young Federico, Giulia, Lorenzo and Vicenzo explained to her friends that they would have been only too happy to have had her come to live in their house when dear Aunt Gianna passed away. As, indeed, did Mrs Peter Stamper (the former Violetta d’Annunzio) when she came to call with Baby Bert Stamper. Janey explained merrily that Papa had thought it might be too much of a crowd, and the d’Annunzio cousins cried that Oh, one more little one could not signify! They were, in fact, such a laughing, happy, easy-going family that the Bottomley-Pughs and Mr Pouteney could see that this claim was no exaggeration. Even though, in addition to those old enough and articulate enough to express a wish to have housed Miss Janey, there were also the twins, Josie and Rosie, and little Frankie in residence.

    Perhaps fortunately, the twins were too little to be overly impressed by the beaux yeux of Mr Paul Pouteney. The which were blue, very unlike the dark eyes of the d’Annunzios, though his luxuriant black curls were not dissimilar to theirs. Miss Giulia, however, was almost immediately observed to have fallen for him with a thump. As she was fully fifteen years of age, the whole gamut of vivid blushes, inarticulate bursts of giggles, open-mouthed staring, and deep sighs was to be expected. And, indeed, was produced in short order. So also were two bosom friends who of course were expected to share the tender passion. Which, to judge by the vivid blushes, inarticulate bursts of giggles, open-mouthed staring and deep sighs, they did. Miss Giulia was stoutish, if very pretty and pink-cheeked, with a mop of dark ringlets, huge liquid dark eyes, and a tendency to spots and the illicit consumption of chocolate, these last two factors possibly not being unconnected; Miss Daisy Overton was also stoutish, but blonde and pale-blue-eyed, with a tendency to short-sightedness, for which she was supposed to wear eye-glasses, and did whenever her own or Giulia’s mother’s glance was upon her; and Miss Pauline Wiggins was tallish, skinny and brown-haired, with a tendency to streaming hay fever in the warmer months. So it was a mystery, really, why Mr Pouteney did not instantly reciprocate the feelings of all three. He did, however, graciously allow them to worship from afar. Explaining by the by to Mr Bottomley-Pugh that it was one of the hazards of his profession, but one became accustomed.

    That worthy managed to nod solemnly, though he had a good laugh over it in private; but he acknowledged to himself that it was just as well that Miss d’Annunzio and Mr Pouteney seemed indifferent to each other, for he did not imagine for one moment that Umberto d’Annunzio would have permitted that.

    One might have expected Mr Vaughan to have fallen with a thump for Miss d’Annunzio, for she was strikingly pretty; but having discovered that she read poetry, he announced to his Pa that looks was not everything, and he would say this for Kate, she had never gone moony over a dashed daffodil. Since it was bidding fair to be a very hot August indeed, Mr Bottomley-Pugh rolled his eyes, rather, but refrained from immediate inquiry, merely asking Katerina later what that book was that Miss d’Annunzio had been reading. His daughter replied with a gurgle: “It was only Wordsworth, Pa, but it was enough to scare Vaughan!” Mr Bottomley-Pugh grinned and nodded, but reflected it was just as well: the family was Roman Catholic and though he himself couldn’t see it mattered what sort of a Christian you called yourself, it wouldn’t have gone down too well in Nettleford.

    Cousins Bob, Alfie and Harry, all of whom were unmarried and living at home, all fell with great thumps for Katerina. As, in fact, did Cousin Federico, though as he was but fourteen, with a voice of the uncertain variety, he could be discounted. Choking neckcloths, frightening waistcoats, flashing fobs and terrifyingly yellow pantaloons were immediately produced, as were innumerable small tokens, largely of the floral variety; though Enrico, who himself had a sweet-tooth and was only seventeen, tended rather towards the small edible kind of token from the pastrycook’s. But Katerina did not appear to reciprocate. As Robert d’Annunzio was twenty-six years old and a very decent sort of fellow indeed, and not bad-looking at all, Mr Bottomley-Pugh ventured to inquire, after Katerina had allowed him to take her for a stroll, what she had thought of him? Katerina replied thoughtfully that of course he was very pleasant, but he had no interests outside his own profession. And though it was a very absorbing profession, she did think that that sort of attitude tended to narrow a man’s thinking: indeed, to make a man seem even younger than his years, did not Pa think? Mr Bottomley-Pugh, whilst quite agreeing with the first conclusion, was considerably startled by the second, and gave her a sharp look; but did not say anything.

    Any of the d’Annunzio children would have been happy to have accompanied the visitors on the visit to Mr Greenstreet: Master Freddy, indeed, going so far as to declare that he could take ’em to any part of London they wished, for he knew it like the back of his hand—loftily ignoring the twins’ immediate cries of Pooh, he did not! But as their business was of a distinctly private nature Mr Bottomley-Pugh thought they had better not. Though the strong right arms of Bob or Alfie, he could not help thinking, might not come amiss. But he relented sufficiently to allow Miss Giulia and Miss Daisy Overton, who had come for the day, not to say for the sight of Mr Pouteney, to squash into the hire carriage with them as far as the next corner but one. Also relenting sufficiently to allow Vaughan to get up beside the driver without comment.

    The ecstatic state not permitting, in general, of base human utterance, Miss Giulia and Miss Daisy did not speak during the drive. Mr Pouteney graciously allowed them the sights of himself removing and later replacing his gloves, of himself consulting his watch, and of himself adjusting infinitesimally the flower in his buttonhole. And they descended at the next corner but one still inarticulate but blissfully sated.

    Mr Greenstreet’s address was revealed, after quite some time, to be a sufficiently grimy street, but not the positive slum which Mr Bottomley-Pugh had been anticipating.

    “This is it: Number 9,” reported Mr Pouteney.

    Janey and the Bottomley-Pughs blinked: Number 9 appeared to be an undertaker’s establishment!

    “Not a popular address, so he has the top floor and the attic at a discount,” the young actor explained. “It ain’t all that convenient, for since the second floor absconded with three months’ rent in arrears and Mrs Wellcome’s silver, Mr Wellcome keeps the side door locked, and you have to enter through the shop. –Allow me, Miss Bottomley-Pugh.” He assisted the two girls to alight; Mr Bottomley-Pugh, considering the frailty of the arm being offered—Mr Pouteney was a slight gentleman—got down without assistance, noting: “It’s a cheery name for an undertaker.”

    “It is, sir, but he don’t like it if you make a play upon it!” hissed Mr Pouteney urgently.

    “Ar, well, I shan’t do that, lad. Will you lead the way, then?”

    Mr Pouteney did so. The shop bell tinkled and the visitors jumped slightly. The young ladies and Mr Vaughan looked about them curiously. The interior of the undertaker’s establishment was black-draped, but as their eyes adjusted to the gloom they perceived that there was a counter, just as in any little shop: but on this one there was an open coffin, fully lined in purple silk, with branched candelabra at its head and foot. As they stared a short, jovial-looking, ruddy-cheeked young man dressed all in black came bustling out from the nether regions.

    “Hullo, George,” said Mr Pouteney on a cautious note. “Your father in, is he?”

    “Good morning, Mr Pouteney,” said the ruddy-cheeked one in lugubrious tones, bowing profoundly. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. ’Ow may Wellcome and Son assist you in your time of sadness?”

    “They ain’t bereaved,” said Mr Pouteney hurriedly.

    “Well, blimey, Paul, whatcher want wiv Pa, then?” he cried indignantly.

    “I don’t. I only meant, was he in, for if so we won’t disturb him. It’s for Fred Greenstreet.”

    The ruddy-cheeked one sniffed slightly but, leaning an elbow casually on the open coffin, allowed: “Well, ’e’s in. But if ’e don’t corf up somefink on account, ’e won’t be for much longer. Nor that cousin of ’is, neither! Good for nuffink lay-about, is wot ’e is!”

    Mr Pouteney was seen to gulp. “What, not his Cousin Ned?”

    “Mister H’Edward Cloverly, h’if you please!” retorted the undertaker’s son with immense irony.

    “Oh, Lor’,” said Mr Pouteney.

    “Well, ’e’s sober,” admitted young Mr Wellcome. “Though if ’e ’ad the wherewivall ’e wouldn’t be. Which proves ’e ain’t got it, dunnit? ’E’s up there eating Fred aht of ’ouse and ’ome. –Go on up, ladies and gents: it’s the third.”

    “Through here,” explained Mr Pouteney, holding up a black curtain to reveal a doorway.

    The doorway led to a passage which the visitors saw in turn led to the locked outer door. They followed Mr Pouteney up several flights of stairs, Vaughan remarking on the first landing: “There’s a funny smell, isn’t there?” and as they reached the second floor: “You can still smell it,” and as they reached the third: “The smell’s not so bad up here.”

    “No, well, when Fred Greenstreet’s in funds you might smell a bit of beef turning on the spit or maybe a roast chicken,” allowed Mr Pouteney, knocking on a closed door: “but if he ain’t, it’ll be boiled potatoes and cabbage soup. –HULLO!”

    The young people jumped, but Mr Bottomley-Pugh preserved his calm: he had not, in view of the information received so far about Mr Greenstreet’s pecuniary affairs, expected the door to be answered immediately, if at all. “Call out it’s you, lad,” he said in tolerant tones.

    Mr Pouteney duly bellowed: “HULLO! Greenstreet! It’s Paul Pouteney!”

    This produced no immediate answer, either, and Mr Bottomley-Pugh was about to hammer on the door himself when a female voice suddenly cried shrilly: “It ain’t, he’s in the country!”

    “Is that you, Merlina?” cried Mr Pouteney. “It is me! On an errand for Mr Hartington!”

    At this the door suddenly opened.

    “Oh, hullo, Mrs Greenstreet,” said Mr Pouteney limply. “I thought it was Merlina.”

    “She’s posing,” said Mrs Greenstreet.

    The visitors stared: Mrs Greenstreet looked as if she, too, had been posing. She was a plumpish, fair woman; her head was adorned by a very ordinary white cap, but the rest of her person was draped in quantities of green and lilac diaphanous gauze. Mr Vaughan blushed and hurriedly averted his gaze.

    “Juno,” said Mrs Greenstreet in explanation. “He’s had a Classical inspiration.”

    “I see,” replied Mr Pouteney politely. “Er, these ladies and gentlemen are not themselves professionals, Mrs Greenstreet.”

    “Oh—right. Begging your pardon, Ay’m sure,” said Mrs Greenstreet, closing the door.

    The visitors had barely time to exchange glances before the door opened again, to reveal Mrs Greenstreet clad in an immense print wrapper. “Which,” she explained somewhat breathlessly: “we don’t usually get none but professionals layke Mr Pouteney or persons of the artistic persuasion layke ourselves. Not on the third floor. No offence, Ay trust?”

    “None at all, ma’am. We’re looking for Mr Greenstreet on a matter of business. Recommended by Mr Harold Hartington,” explained Mr Bottomley-Pugh solemnly.

    “Not professionals, Ay think was mentioned?”

    “They don’t want to borrow anything,” said Mr Pouteney hurriedly.

    “That’s good, for we don’t lend any artistic or theatrical property without the money down first. And that remaynds me, Mr Pouteney, Mr Greenstreet will require that stuffed ursine accoutrement back direct, for he has another customer waiting on it.”

    “He can’t, it’s standing in our front hall. And Mr Hartington’s paid for the summer,” said Mr Pouteney firmly. “If he’s working, we’ll go on up. But as we have young ladies with us, perhaps you’d just care to mention if it’s decent?”

    “It is not only decent, Mr Pouteney, it is delayghtfully refeened. And might grace any lady’s drawing-room,” said Mrs Greenstreet, taking a second look at Katerina’s and Janey’s bonnets and gowns. “Quayte in the modern style. Tastefully Classical: fitted to the Hall of the Royal Academy itself.”

    “Good,” said Mr Pouteney simply. “He’s in the studio: it’s another flight, I’m afraid, sir,” he explained to Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    “That’s all roight, lad: lead on.”

    Mr Pouteney led on.

    “Ooh, that funny smell’s come back!” discerned Vaughan as they reached the attic floor.

    “No, you noddy, this’ll be turpentine and what-not that painters use!” said his father, panting slightly.

    “Yes. And linseed oil,” agreed Mr Pouteney, beating on the door. “HEY! Greenstreet! It’s Paul Pouteney! BUSINESS!”

    The visitors could hear the sounds of low-voiced confabulation behind this door: then a shrill voice cried: “It ain’t! He’s in the country!”

    “Merlina, it’s me!” cried Mr Pouteney impatiently. “Open up! I’ve got some customers for your Pa!”

    There was a short silence, and then the voice said suspiciously from very close, sounding as if it were speaking into the keyhole: “If you ain’t in the country, who’s he gone with?”

    “With Mr Hartington, and open up,” sighed Mr Pouteney.

    At this the door did open, to reveal a skinny young person skimpily clad in the silver garments of, possibly, a Cupid. Or a Hermes? It had bubbly curls, though admittedly these were silver curls, and its silver-sandaled feet sprouted small wings from the heels. Its sex was not immediately apparent.

    “Hullo, Merlina,” said the actor.

    “Oh—it is you,” replied the small silvery being.

    “Yes! Why would anyone pretend to be me?” he said crossly. –Some of the visitors had been wondering this for some time, and Janey collapsed in giggles.

    “You might have been a dun,” said the silver Merlina wisely.

    “Well, I’m not! And let us in!”

    The visitors were permitted in, the silver one preceding them with a cry of: “Pa, it’s that Paul Pry, with some ladies and gents!”

    “That isn’t your real name, is it?” asked Mr Vaughan in a low voice.

    “No!” he hissed crossly.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh shook slightly, but said calmly: “That’ll do, you boys.”

    Mr Fred Greenstreet’s studio was an enormous and dusty apartment. Those who had had some hazy idea it might be placed up in the attic to get a north light or some such were confounded: it manifestly got very little light, though the small windows set in its sloping ceiling were certainly uncurtained. Many indefinable shapes, some perhaps draped in dust-sheets, others possibly with discarded shawls, rugs or draperies merely flung on them, loomed in the soft gloom. The artist himself was positioned before one of the windows at a tall easel. His subject appeared to be a chair draped in a sheet of green-painted canvas, a potted palm, and a large dog: liver and white, perhaps a springer spaniel. As they approached they saw that the dog was stuffed. The girls blenched.

    “One moment,” said Mr Greenstreet portentously, holding up a hand, but not taking his eyes from his large canvas. The visitors were respectfully silent, watching him with interest. He was a plump man of middle height, slightly unshaven, though there was nothing else remarkable about his round, undistinguished features. In the street you might have taken him for any tradesman. His present garments, however, proclaimed his artistic occupation unmistakeably: as to the head, a large drooping cap or bonnet, in a much-rubbed crimson velvet. The outer garment was some sort of loose smock, so smeared and spattered with paint that the fabric’s exact shade was indiscernible. It was unfastened at the neck and instead of a collar or neckcloth there was a bright red and white spotted handkerchief, loosely knotted. The smock reached only to about the knee, and under it appeared two more layers: the top one a rusty green velvet, even more rubbed and worn than the headgear, and the under one... After some contemplation they decided silently that Mr Greenstreet had his nightshirt on under his velvet robe. He was certainly wearing his slippers.

    “Ah!” he said at last, stepping back and squinting at his easel. “Pray forgive the delay, ladies and gentlemen: the Muse, you know, cannot be denied.”

    “He was getting the face,” explained Merlina.

    Vaughan said eagerly: “I say, sir, may I look? I’ve never seen an artist at work, before.”

    “It is unusual, young sir: unusual,” he said in tones of deep consideration.

    “Friends of Mr Hartington. This gent here is actually the Unknown Gentleman himself,” explained Mr Pouteney.

    “In that case, one may stretch a point,” said the artist unctuously, bowing, and flourishing his palette invitingly. “Pray gaze your full.”

    They all came eagerly to look, even Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    The picture, which was taller than Mr Greenstreet himself, featured a draped lady, seated, supported by another draped lady and the dog to the viewer’s right, and by a small silver figure to the left. The seated lady’s draperies were painted in some detail, as were certain portions of her anatomy which in the opinion of several of the spectators rendered Mrs Greenstreet’s claims for the picture’s decency null and void. As her gauzy garments were green and lilac, it was clearly Mrs Greenstreet herself. Mr Vaughan was heard to gulp, but he noted percipiently: “But she ain’t got a face!”

    Nor she had; neither did the standing lady.

    “Nah! The dog’s face!” said Merlina on a scornful note.

    “Oh,” he said humbly.

    They looked from the face of the noble canine on the canvas to that of the moth-eaten, one-eyed stuffed creature...

    “Very foine,” pronounced Mr Bottomley-Pugh, unmoved.

    “Yes: lovely,” croaked Katerina gamely. Janey cleared her throat; Vaughan swallowed.

    “Artistic licence, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr Pouteney murmured. “Mr Greenstreet’s art is inspirational rather than merely representational.”

    “Exact!” said the artist, beaming, and clapping him on his slender shoulder. “And how are you, my boy? The part going well, is it?”

    “I’m very well, and it’s going very well, thanks, and don’t think you’re going to find out no more from me!” replied Mr Pouteney smartly.

    “No offence,” returned Mr Greenstreet mildly. “Now, what can I do for these ladies and gents? More Turkish props, is it?”

    “No. The Unknown Gentleman will tell you,” said Mr Pouteney.

    Mr Greenstreet bowed profoundly. “Perhaps you would care to be addressed as Mr Smith, sir?”

    Not batting an eyelid, Mr Bottomley-Pugh replied: “I would that. And these here are Mr Smith and two Miss Smiths.”

    “Of course: quite understood. May I beg you to be seated, Miss Smith and Miss Smith? Over here will be most comfortable.” He led the way to where a sagging sofa and chairs were arranged in a sort of conversation piece, and gestured the young ladles to a seat.

    “Now, sir!” he said with a smile as the gentlemen seated themselves. “Oh, Merlina, my love: pray ask your mother to provide a tray of tea for the young ladies.”

    “There ain’t none. Uncle Ned drank the last of it when the thirst was on him,” retorted Merlina on a pugnacious note. “And afore that he drank your last dregs of coffee up, if you’ve forgotten, and I told you when you let him in that that would happen!”

    “We really do not need refreshment, thank you,” said Katerina hurriedly, smiling at the child.

    “No, indeed,” agreed Janey kindly. “It  is not so long since we had our breakfast.”

    Merlina returned grimly: “Breakfast? That’s a word what some in this house ’ud like to hear once in a while!”

    “Shush, Merlina, the ladies and gentlemen do not wish to hear of our trifling domestic concerns,” her father reproved her.

    “Trifling is as trifling does! And what’s more, ’e drunk up that porter ’imself, acos Mercurio and Gertie Wellcome, they saw him! And when Mr Kitchen comes down on you for the price of it, that’ll be why!”

    Mr Greenstreet waved his hand. “These are mere nothings, my child.”

    “The price of a pint o’ porter ain’t nothing,” she noted grimly.

    “No, it ain’t,” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh, producing a purse. “And as it’s a warm morning, I must say as a glass of porter wouldn’t come amiss. I bet a great girl like you would be capable of nipping round to this Mr Kitchen and acquiring a jug off him, eh?”

    “That is most gracious of you, Mr Smith, most gracious indeed,” smiled Mr Greenstreet.

    “Mr Kitchen won’t sell me nothing until we’ve paid what we owe,” said Merlina, eyeing the purse.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh fixed her with a shrewd eye. “Is that so? Well, now, ain’t that a pity? We’ll just have to go without, then.”

    “Don’t talk rubbish, Merlina!” said Mr Greenstreet hurriedly. “Take it, and be off with you! –And kindly do not favour the neighbourhood.” he added, with a sudden return to his more unctuous style, “with one of my irreplaceable costumes.”

    “Draughty, too,” said Vaughan hoarsely as Merlina accepted the price of a jug of porter from Mr Bottomley-Pugh and darted out.

    “Very true, young Mr Smith,” said the painter courteously. “Highly suited to the Grecian climes, but less so to our insalubrious English urbanscape.”

    “Um—yes,” he agreed numbly.

    “So the picture’s Greek, is it, Mr Greenstreet?” asked Janey brightly.

    Mr Greenstreet did not even blink. “Say rather, Classical, my dear Miss Smith. Juno with attendant Nymph, Messenger and Faithful Hound.” –Those who had been wondering what flowery phrase Mr Greenstreet could find to apply to the mangy springer spaniel were conscious of a certain enjoyment at this moment.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh scratched his chins. “Ar. Now, we’re looking for some documents, Mr Greenstreet, and according to Mr Hartington and Mr Lefayne you’re the man what can put us in the way of ’em.”

    “I see,” he said cautiously. “What sort of documents did you have in mind, Mr Smith?”

    “Foreign documents.”

    Mr Greenstreet was seen to blench slightly.

    “Not the sort what Weeble can get you for a price, Fred!” said Mr Pouteney hurriedly.

    “Oh,” he said limply. “Nothing in the way of—er—a foreign passport, then, dear sir?”

    “No,” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    Mr Greenstreet was seen to sag, though admitting gamely: “Well, all things are possible, but it would mean—er—contacts of contacts, as it were.”

    “Yes: Weeble!” said Mr Pouteney impatiently. “I’ve warned them about him! What they want are some really artistic documents, but they don’t need to stand up to—um—”

    “Legal scrutiny,” finished Mr Bottomley-Pugh blandly.

    Mr Greenstreet brightened. “Well, in that case! What sort of documents, my good sir? And foreign in general, or any particular kind?”

    “Russian,” said the stout merchant  succinctly.

    Mr Greenstreet gulped. “Russian? But my very dear sir, had you thought? The Cyrillic alphabet!”

    “Hey?”

    “Pa, I did explain,” murmured Katerina. “It’s rather like Greek.”

    “Aye, well, they won’t be scrutinized by no Russian readers,” he said comfortably.

    “Pa, she might, though!” gasped Mr Vaughan.

    “Boy, what did we say afore we come about you holdin’ your gab?” rejoined his father severely.

    Mr Vaughan subsided, reddening.

    “They’ll need to look good, Mr Greenstreet,” Mr Bottomley-Pugh continued. “Some of ’em real old, too. But your man can just write any rubbish: ‘mushy dusty’ and that, no-one won’t know the difference.”

    “But Pa!” gasped Katerina.

    “Dear Mr—Mr Smith,” said Janey, leaning forward: “you don’t understand. It’s a different script! Different letters.”

    “Hey?” he said blankly.

    “Wait,” commanded Mr Greenstreet portentously, rising. They waited, as he went over to a battered desk. He returned with a sheet of paper and a pencil. “Now observe, my dear sir.” He wrote in a flowing hand: “The cat sat on the mat.” Then he wrote: “Sic transit gloria mundi.”

    “Gloria goes off sick on Monday!” agreed Mr Vaughan, reviving.

    “Quite. Do you also read Greek, young sir?”

    “No,” he muttered, subsiding once more.

    “Well, that’s it, then!” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh bracingly. “Any old rubbish like that’ll do foine!”

    “No, no, my dear Mr Smith: you have not seized my point! This is English, and that Latin, but they are both in our alphabet! Now, this, by contrast, is the Greek alphabet—to the best of my poor ability.” He wrote it out carefully and for good measure wrote the English alphabet underneath it.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh stared at it numbly.

    “Do you see, dear sir?” said Janey. “The very letters are formed differently.”

    “Aye... Hold on: how do we know this feller ain’t makin’ it up, to bump up ’is proice?”

    The young ladies looked at each other limply.

    “Pa, it truly is Greek,” said Katerina, blushing. “It’s just like in Mr Humphreys’s old books.”

    “Yes,” agreed Janey. “Truly! My Papa has many Greek books, dear sir.”

    “Ar,” he said, biting his lip. “And Russian’s loike this, is it?”

    “Well,” said Mr Greenstreet frankly, scratching under the bonnet with his pencil, “I’ve never seen it, myself. But it’s said to be: very.”

    A glum silence fell.

    “Copy a page or two of Greek?” suggested Janey at last. “I could easily go round to the house and get a Greek book.”

    “I think we need to think logically about who will be looking at these documents,” said Katerina, shy but determined. “Possibly the brother—in fact, I think it very likely. And quite possibly their man of business. He is a London lawyer.”

    “Oh, Lor’!” said Mr Greenstreet in tones of unalloyed dismay. “He’ll more’n likely know Greek when he sees it.”

    Another glum silence fell.

    “Ask Weeble?” suggested Mr Pouteney eventually.

    “It may come to that,” admitted Mr Greenstreet, wincing. “Russian is so obscure, my dear Mr Smith! Had you asked me for French, or German, or any of the Romance languages—”

    “Ar.” Mr Bottomley-Pugh rubbed his chins. “Well, there could be a letter of credit in French. So long as we have a fancy bit naming a Russian bank, it’ll do.”

    “It’ll have to be Weeble if you want letters of credit,” said Mr Greenstreet gloomily.

    “Not ones that they want to cash, Fred!” said Mr Pouteney with a laugh.

    He brightened momentarily, but then his face fell again. “No, no: the London lawyer.”

    The company had lapsed into general gloom again, when Merlina re-entered, panting, carrying a brimming jug and accompanied by a grimy small boy with a mop of golden curls which caused several of the visitors to wonder why he had not been cast as an Attendant Cupid, by a small, fat, grimy girl, featuring long greasy yellow ringlets, an amazingly elaborate pink dress and a frilled apron, and, last but not least, by a tall, cadaverously pale gentleman with a black silk handkerchief upon his head. Merlina herself was now clad in a faded print gown and an apron almost as grimy as that of the little girl.

    “Pa, tell Uncle Ned it ain’t for him!” she panted.

    The tall gentleman bowed. “Edward Cloverly, at your service.”

    “Go away, Ned,” said Mr Greenstreet with a frown.

    “Conjuring, feats of magic, and prestidigitation of all sorts a specialty,” noted the cadaverous gentleman, bowing again, and suddenly producing three small coloured balls from his crumpled person, and proceeding to juggle them deftly. “Juggling upon request.”

    “And even if you don’t request it,” added Mr Pouteney on a sour note. “Well, he ain’t drunk, he said ‘prestidigitation’ without stumbling. –Ned, in the case you were going to claim you’d forgotten, you owe me three shillings.”

    “I reminded him,” said Merlina virtuously. “But he ain’t got it, Paul. And he ate the last of the doves three weeks since, so that’s out. And he’s popped his suit, these clothes are Pa’s.”

    This last did not seem unlikely, now the company came to look more closely: the coat was too wide in the shoulders and too short in the waist, and the breeches hung upon him, but were too short in the leg. In fact a considerable stretch of leg was visible where the breeches ended, before the broken-down boots began.

    “Give him a glassful, provoiding he pushes orf,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    Mr Greenstreet conceding that it was probably the only thing for it, they did it, and Mr Cloverly, with the remark: “The health of the company. Children’s parties a speciality; young persons’ jollities attended with celerity,” bowed himself out again.

    The gentlemen then disposed of the porter, Mr Greenstreet generously awarding Merlina a sip but ordering her to get Mercurio and that dratted Gertie Wellcome on out of it; and the company turned to business again.

    “Let’s think about the type of documents you require, sir, rather than the language.”

    “Ar. Most of the estates have been in the family since Kingdom Come, he won’t need no documentary proof. Only I dessay as we moight ’ave a paper from the Tsar awarding the family some new lands for services rendered. And then, there’s the mortgages... ar. Thing is, these here estates is supposed to be let out for the most part to a tenant.”

    “A merchant from Tomsk,” put in Mr Vaughan on a hopeful note.

    “That’s it,” he agreed mildly.

    Mr Greenstreet did not appear in the least put out by these sudden factual accretions to the Russian theme. He beamed. “They could look like anything!”

    “Ar.”

    “We did think,” said Katerina shyly, “that the very oldest papers might be—well, that there might be a little illumination, sir.”

    “Ar,” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh. “Only with Russian writing. But they got to look real old, moind.”

    “That, sir, is a specialty of mine, if I say so myself. Pray consider these examples.”

    “Lard!” gulped Mr Bottomley-Pugh, as a gilded box was then produced from the battered desk, and opened to display some very old, tattered parchment documents.

    “Lovely work,” sighed Mr Greenstreet with his head on one side, sinking into contemplation of his own genius.

    “What are they?” asked Janey with interest.

    “Samples, Miss Smith,” explained Mr Pouteney. “One of them’s the deed of ownership to the Tower of London: see?”

    “It’s very Mediaeval,” Janey approved. “You’d swear it was hundreds of years old!”

    “Thank you, my dear Miss Smith,” bowed the artist. “I flatter myself that I have no rival in the ageing of a document.”

    “This ain’t no ordinary parchment,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh, fingering it cautiously.

    “No, indeed, my dear sir! The finest vellum!”

    “Roight. We’ll have that, for our oldest documents. For the chief person what has to look at ’em may not know Russian from Greek, but they ain’t a noddy,” he said firmly.

    Mr Greenstreet bowed, but with a wary look in his eye. “Most certainly, my dear sir. But I should warn you that vellum is not a cheap commodity.”

    “Then we’d better talk proices, Mr Greenstreet.”

    Mr Greenstreet smiled and bowed…

    After about three quarters of an hour he tacitly conceded defeat—though still smiling—and agreed to a fair price.

    The visitors then retreated the way they had come, Mr Pouteney going first, as the stairs were rather steep. Merlina, still in the print dress, and the golden-haired Mercurio were encountered upon the final flight. Apparently just sitting.

    “You can go up again, we’ve finished,” said Vaughan kindly.

    “Was it a job?” she returned sapiently.

    “Er—yes,” he said, with an uneasy eye on his father.

    “Then Pa won’t need me, for a bit. We’ll keep on with this.”

    “Y— Um—what?” groped Vaughan.

    “Sitting,” she said tersely.

    “But I say, ain’t it a bit boring, sitting on the stairs? Don’t they let you play outside?”

    “We ain’t playing. We’re practising.”

    “I’m sitting!” piped Mercurio.

    Miss Lattersby had realised what the children must be doing some minutes previously: she shot a look at Vaughan’s face and collapsed in giggles.

    “I think they’re practising sitting for their father,” said Katerina to her brother.

    “Eh?”

    “Posing!” squeaked Janey, going into further paroxysms.

    “It ain’t funny, Miss. It’s business,” said Merlina tersely.

    “Yes! I do beg your pardon!” gasped Janey, wiping her eyes. “I was not laughing at you, but at Mr V—Mr Smith, the younger.”

    “Slow, ain’t ’e?” replied the sapient Merlina.

    Janey bit her lip but Mr Bottomley-Pugh agreed calmly: “He’s not got the quickest wits in England, no. So sitting takes a bit o’ practice, does it?”

    “Yes. Mercurio’s the worst wriggler Pa’s ever seen, and he won’t have him sit. But someone’s got to do something about him, ’cos I’m getting too big for a cherub.”

    “I must say, I thought the instant I saw him he would make an excellent cherub,” said Katerina, smiling at his head of gold curls. And ignoring the grime on the cherubic face.

    “Yes. When ’e come, and the curls grew out yellow, Pa was nigh to busting himself: he said Ma deserved a medal for producing him. Only then ’e turned out to be a wriggler.”

    “I can sit still!” he piped.

    “Yes, for ’alf a minute—maybe,” noted his sister sourly.

    “Well, we’ll leave you to it,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh kindly. “’Ere.” He handed Merlina two sixpences and went on down the stairs with the remark: “Give ’im one, whether or not he manages more’n half a minute.”

    “Ooh! Thanks, sir! –I say, ’e don’t deserve it, you know!” she called as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh smiled and replied: “Never moind: some on us are born wrigglers.” And went on through into the undertaker’s shop.

    Young Mr Wellcome was in there, propping up the open coffin, yawning. He brightened on seeing them. “Got wotcher wanted, then, did yer?”

    “We’ve placed a commission, yes,” replied Mr Pouteney. “How’s trade, George?”

    “Slow,” said Mr Wellcome, yawning again. “Beggin’ your pardon, ladies and gents, I’m sure. It ain’t the wevver for it.”

    “Winter would be the best time of year for your trade, I suppose, would it?” asked Mr Bottomley-Pugh with interest.

    “Ah!” beamed the ruddy-faced young undertaker. “Most folks think that, wot ain’t in the trade. But it h’ain’t, not no-wise. –Spring,” he explained deeply. “Spring is wot gets ’em, sir; especially the old folks. Drops like flies, they do, in spring.”

    “Is that so? That’s real interesting,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with apparent sincerity. “Good-day to you, sir.”

    Beaming and bowing, young Mr Wellcome saw them out to their carriage. And stood in the warm, dusty street, cheerfully waving them off.

    “Now, you wouldn’t think it, to look at George, but his father’s got a face like a fiddle,” confided Mr Pouteney.

    “I was wondering,” confessed Mr Bottomley-Pugh.

    Janey at this gave way entirely and went into helpless hysterics, Katerina swiftly joined her, and Vaughan, though not wholly seeing the joke, happily followed suit.

    Mr Weeble was a slight man, not very tall. Meeting him in Mr Wellcome’s house, one might have taken him for the undertaker himself: he was very neatly dressed in a plain suit of black, even to black gloves, which he did not remove. His hair was grey and sparse, and also very neat, and his thin, pale face was entirely unremarkable—unless extreme meekness be remarkable.

    “Gratified to make your acquaintance, Mr Smith—young Mr Smith,” he said, bowing very low to the Bottomley-Pughs. “And in what way might my ’umble self be of service?”

    The plump Mr Greenstreet at this point was seen to swallow. “I have explained the nature of the documents required, Mr Smith.”

    “Good. That’ll let us get on quicker, won’t it?” returned Mr Bottomley-Pugh blandly. He fancied he saw a sort of spark in Mr Weeble’s meek eye at this point, but the eye was so very quickly lowered that he could not have taken an oath it had ever been there. “Now, Mr Greenstreet and me have previous worked out we’ll need two things from you, Mr Weeble,” he said briskly, “and that is, first, a noice-looking letter of credit in French, and second, a feller what can write in Russian.”

    “Always eager to oblige, Mr Smith,” said Mr Weeble on a mournful note, “though a letter of credit is not particularly easy to conjure up at a moment’s notice, as it were. Not h’in a foreign language.”

    “Ar. Now, we been thinking about that,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with an appearance of frankness, “and on the whole it moight be better if we got a real one. Which I dessay as my bankers could provoide. And it won’t matter if it’s in English, for the name of the bank’ll say more than any Froggy document could.”

    “Indeed, sir,” sighed Mr Weeble, for all the world as if he were agreeing mournfully with him. “Well, that is your privilege, of course. Though in my ’umble experience banks is apt to ask questions about such matters. And then, h’even in the most reliable of hands, a letter of credit can go astray, with h’unfortunate consequences.” He shook his head, and looked sadly at the floor.

    “That would be a drawback, of course,” agreed Mr Bottomley-Pugh, ignoring Vaughan’s indignant indrawn breath. “I wouldn’t much care to be up for a Russian fortune for real.”

    “No, quite,” sighed Mr Weeble, still looking sadly at the floor.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh merely eyed him blandly, and waited.

    “I don’t deny,” he said sadly at last, “as I have had some h’experience in providing documents of a foreign nature.”

    “Of course you have, Mr Weeble,” said Mr Greenstreet encouragingly. “The most artistically convincing you ever saw, Mr Smith!”

    “But now that the late conflict with our neighbours across the Channel is over, it is not so easy to put one’s hand on an émigré at a moment’s notice,” said Mr Weeble mournfully.

    “What about M. Dupont?” said Mr Pouteney, speaking for the first time since greetings had been exchanged.

    Mr Weeble shook his head slowly. “I grant you M. Dupont be willing, my dear Mr Pouteney. But ’e ain’t able. Not without direction.”

    “True,” agreed Mr Greenstreet. “He would need your guiding hand, Mr Weeble.”

    “Can he wroite legal stuff in French?” asked Mr Bottomley-Pugh baldly.

    “I am not a h’expert in that distinguished language of the courts of Europe, Mr Smith,” said Mr Weeble mournfully. “but I can assure you that documents written by M. Dupont to my order have been known to stand up under the closest of scrutinies, h’in circumstances of the utmost”—he coughed very slightly: out of the corner of his eye Mr Bottomley-Pugh saw Mr Greenstreet wince and Mr Pouteney blench—“delicacy.”

    “Well, that sounds all roight, as far as it goes,” allowed the merchant, scratching his chins. “This here letter of credit what we had in moind would have to stand up to the scrutiny of a London lawyer.”

    “From Grey s Inn,” agreed Mr Vaughan.

    “Ar, that’s roight. Is that the sort of situation what you guarantee your documents to stand up in, Mr Weeble?”

    With a delicate, finicky motion, Mr Weeble held up his little black-gloved hands in horror. “My very dear sir”—here Mr Pouteney was heard to take a deep breath—“there are no guarantees in this life of woe, as surely a gentleman of your h’acumen must long since have perceived for yourself.”

    “I dunno about that,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with, this time, a frankness that was very clearly assumed. “But I’ll tell you what a loife in business ’as taught me, Mr Weeble, and that’s that if there’s no guarantee it makes the proice considerable lower.”

    Mr Weeble shook his head very slowly. “Well, there is risk in all ventures, of course, my very dear sir, but great risks usually demand greater capital outlay, if I am not mistook.”

    “Aye, I’m sure they do. Only there ain’t a great risk to you, Mr Weeble, if your man’s documents are seen through. For perhaps Mr Greenstreet didn’t make it clear to you,” said Mr Bottomley-Pugh with a gleam in his eye, “that no legal consequences are envisaged for any involved. Only, the success of the venture will hang upon the appearance of these documents. But if so be you feel as there’s a great risk, then of course I’d be willing to agree that your remuneration should depend entoirely on the outcome of the venture.” He eyed him blandly.

    “Now!” cried Vaughan. “Ain’t that something like!”

    Mr Weeble could see from the beaming smile that Mr Pouteney was trying to hide that he thought so, too. He directed a brief, evil glance at the young actor and said smoothly: “Very acute, Mr Smith, but it ain’t my custom to do business on them terms. Cash down, is Weeble’s motto, as them who know ’im can attest.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh scratched his chins again. “Ar. That’s a pity, Mr Weeble. Acos cash on delivery, is the way I do business, and always have. I think we’d best agree to disagree. I’ll get a letter of credit orf of my bankers, and we’ll tell them as moight be interested as the Russian documents stayed in Russia.” He picked up his hat, and said cheerfully: “Come on, you boys. I’m sorry to have wasted your toime, Mr Greenstreet; and I own, I wouldn’t half loike to see your version of an illuminated Russian document. And there’ll be a little something coming to you as thanks for your trouble.”

    They had got as far as the door, and Mr Bottomley-Pugh had nodded to Paul Pouteney to open it, before Mr Weeble said: “Now, now, now! Don’t let’s be ’asty, gents! You can’t blame a man of business for trying, can yer, Mr Smith’?’

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh looked round slowly. “Not at all, Mr Weeble. And good-day to you.”

    “But I think we can do business, after all, sir,” he said quickly.

    “Not on your terms, we can’t. –The door, if you please, Mr Pouteney.”

    Looking very prim but with a twinkle in his blue eyes, Mr Pouteney opened the door.

    “Now ’ang on!” said Mr Weeble in positively lively accents. “I’ve got a nice Russky all lined up for you what can write you out anythink you please, and M. Dupont’s done I dunnamany Froggy letters of credit, so what’s your ’urry? And as for terms, well, a trifle on account for a poor working man ain’t too much to ask, now is it?”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh turned slowly. “’Ow much is a troifle, then, Mr Weeble?”

    “Depends ’ow many documents you wants,” he replied smartly.

    “Per document.”

    “Ten percent.”

    “Ar. Ten percent of what, Mr Weeble?”

    Mr Weeble named the price he generally charged for a letter of credit in French. Mr Pouteney gulped. Mr Greenstreet was apparently trying to appear bland, but very definitely not succeeding.

    “Ar. Well, you ain’t my last resort, Mr Weeble. so we’ll say a quarter o’ that,” replied Mr Bottomley-Pugh calmly.

    After considerable haggling, a price that was rather more than a quarter but not yet a half of Mr Weeble’s original sum was agreed, and Mr Weeble promised to set Dupont to work that very day.

    “Now, what about this Russky what you’ve got loined up?” asked Mr Bottomley-Pugh cheerfully. “You can tell us his name, but you can omit the address. And I don’t want to hear as it ain’t your usual custom, or any such, and I’ll tell you frankly I ain’t got the toime to go a-chasing ’im up for meself. And as I said, we can skip the Russian documents entoirely, if need be.”

    “’Is name’s Rostropovich,” said Mr Weeble reluctantly.

    “Old Rostropovich?” croaked Mr Pouteney.

    “You know ’im, do you?” returned Mr Weeble insouciantly.

    “Of course I know ’im, you miserable old faker, I boarded in ’is ’ouse for ten months, and you know that, too!” cried Mr Pouteney, losing control of his aitches in his indignation. “Don’t you believe a word of this, Mr Smith: old Rostropovich ain’t no more a Russian than what I am, ’e’s an old Jew, and a moneylender and I dare say worse, and the only good thing you can say of ’im is, ’e ain’t as bad as Weeble!”

    “He’s a Russian Jew,” said Mr Weeble, superbly unmoved.

    “Sir, ’e’s got side-curls and ’e wears a ’at in the ’ouse and says funny prayers and that! Don’t you believe ’im!” cried Mr Pouteney.

    Mr Weeble, still unmoved, produced a grimy paper from his pocket. “Look at that,” he said, laying it under Mr Bottomley-Pugh’s nose.

    The stout merchant looked at it stolidly, his face unmoved.

    Mr Greenstreet came to peer over his shoulder. “It ain’t Greek.”

    “What about that Boible language?” replied the merchant stolidly.

    “Hebrew? Er...” Mr Greenstreet’s head was now minus the velvet headgear: he scratched the bubbly curls that, though an undistinguished pepper-and-salt, and rather receded, were very like Master Mercurio’s in type. “I wouldn’t say this was Hebrew.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh sniffed slightly. “Tell you what, Mr Weeble: you give me this and I’ll get it checked. If it’s genuine Russian you can go ahead with the Russian documents. And if it ain’t, we’ll say no hard feelings.”

    “You will find it quite genuine, my dear Mr Smith,” said Mr Weeble, very meek. “Though I do not vouch that its content will be enthralling. Do, pray, take it.”

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh put it carefully in his pocket. “Roight, then. We’ll have a letter of credit writ in French from a Russian bank as soon as you loike, Mr Weeble. I think this’ll cover the ten percent.” He produced a purse and counted out the sum. Very little was then left in the purse but Mr Bottomley-Pugh, who was not so green as to risk himself in that neighbourhood or that company with a purseful of guineas, did not demean himself so far as to smile as he observed Mr Weeble’s eyes upon it. “And I’ll get back to you through Mr Greenstreet, here, about the Russian documents.”

    “Of course. May I ask, exactly what type of Russian documents, dear sir?”

    “One of ’em can be a very old deed to an estate. If your man can just wroite out the words, Mr Greenstreet will copy ’em onto the document. Then there’ll be a mortgage and a tenancy agreement: those can both be modern.”

    Mr Greenstreet attempted to argue for more very old documents, but Mr Bottomley-Pugh, replying politely that that would be ideal, but they could not afford the time they would take, got himself and his two young companions away.

    “Rostropovich?” said Mr Pouteney angrily as they mounted into their carriage. “I could have put you onto him, sir, if you only wanted Hebraic documents!”

    “Ar. Well, we’ll see. Dare say there’s a Russian consulate or some such in London; we’ll ask ’em what this is, hey’“

    Mr Pouteney hunched himself up crossly. “It’ll be Hebrew, mark my words!”

    Mr Pouteney was wrong, however. The official at the Russian consulate had much ado not to smile as he handed the grimy paper back to Mr Bottomley-Pugh. “I can vouch for its authenticity, sir. This is a laundry list.” He obligingly translated it for them.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh bowed, and professed his sincere gratitude. And did not chuckle until they were out on the pavement again.

    “Pa, it isn’t funny!” cried Vaughan.

    “No, it’s a piece of cheek!” cried Mr Pouteney, very flushed.

    “Aye!” he gasped. “Ain’t it, though? –Well,” he said, laying a heavy hand on Mr Pouteney’s slender shoulder, “your Weeble’s every bit as bad as what you said, lad, and worse, I make no doubt; and I wouldn’t turn me back on him in a loighted room let alone a dark alley; but I’ll admit, I loike ’is sauce!”

    “I’ll say this for him: he’s a generous fellow!” said Mr Pouteney enthusiastically.

    “Eh?” croaked Mr Hartington.

    “Not Weeble!” he cried crossly. “Mr B.-P.! Sent me back on the stage with an inside ticket all the way, and more than enough in me pocket to pay for a decent dinner—and not the ordinary, either!”

    “Yes, well, we knew that,” said Mr Hartington peaceably, examining the letter of credit with interest.

    “You might have known it, Mr Hartington, but you would never have believed it, to see him out-smart old Weeble!” said Mr Pouteney with a laugh. “Shrewd ain’t the word!”

    “He never?” said the actor-manager, his jaw dropping.

    Nodding happily, Mr Pouteney proceeded to report the whole.

    “That’s Joe,” acknowledged Sid mildly at the conclusion of the narrative. “May I?”

    Harold Hartington handed him the letter of credit, noting: “It looks genuine to me, but as l was never in the position of having a bank want to guarantee me for umpteen thousands, I can’t say if it’s good enough to fool anyone.”

    Sid looked at it curiously, raised his eyebrows at the sum named, and whistled.

    “Miss Bottomley-Pugh said it read good,” ventured Mr Pouteney, watching his face hopefully.

    “It does, indeed!” he said with a laugh.

    “So how far has it gone, Sid?” he asked eagerly.

    “Are you talking of leg-oversky, or the inspection of me more pecuniary assets, Paul?” he drawled.

    Giggling, Mr Pouteney admitted: “Both! No, I meant has she sent the brother over to talk about settlements, yet?”

    “Yes, but I fobbed him off: said all the documents were in town.”

    “Which they were,” noted Mr Hartington.

    “Right. –You,” he said to Mr Pouteney, the grey eves dancing, “can get on back there in a day or two—making a bit of noise about it: taking the coach, and a footman or two—and fetch ’em officially.”

    “All right, Sid. The Russian ones should be done by then!” he said, rubbing his hands.

    “Yes,” agreed Sid, smiling at him.

    When the young man had gone out, however, he drawled: “Harold, has it occurred to you there’s a huge logical flaw in this convincing story of Paul’s about Russian laundry lists and old Rostropovich?”

    “No,” said Mr Hartington, staring. “What?”

    Sid looked dreamily at the ceiling. “The fact that Weeble was in possession of a Russian laundry list does not prove either that he had it off Rostropovich or that Rostropovich can write in Russian.”

    Mr Hartington gulped.

    “I’ll look forward to seeing Major Harrod and Kitty M.’s man of business, then,” concluded Sid dreamily.

    Kitty walked up and down the pink salon, frowning. Major Harrod watched her nervously, not daring to voice his own doubts about the Prince. Finally she said: “I have sent for Mr Jameson. –Did the Prince actually refuse to discuss his pecuniary affairs with you, George?”

    “Uh—not precisely. He said that it were no use talking until his documents arrive.”

    “Yes.” She walked up and down, frowning.

    “Dare say you could send out the cards of invitation anyway,” he ventured.

    “Rubbish, George! What if I do so, and it turns out he has not a penny to his name and—and all the estates are mortgaged, and the yacht he mentioned is so much moonshine?”

    “Well, what if it do?” he said boldly. “Now, look, don’t it depend what you want from the fellow, Kitty? After all, with what old Marsh left you, you could buy him ten damned Russian estates, not to mention an hundred yachts, and never notice the difference.”

    “I dislike being taken for a fool,” said Kitty tightly.

    “Um, well, so does anyone. Thing is, has he ever claimed to be a wealthy man?”

    “Y—” Kitty stopped, frowning. The Major watched her warily. Finally she said: “He has mentioned his family estates...”

    “Yes. But they could be mortgaged to the hilt. Don’t signify, do it? What I mean is, no-one need know that but ourselves. It’s the title and the position that matter, ain’t it?”

    Kitty strode up and down the pink salon. Eventually she said, the nostrils flaring: “For once in your life you’ve spoken sense, George Harrod.”

    The Major sagged. He smiled weakly.

    “Yes,” she said in a grim voice. “It will not signify, if he has debts all over Europe. As you say, it is the title and the position that matter. We shall publish the notice of the engagement immediately, and I shall send out the invitations as soon as that is done.”

    “Good,” said the Major, frankly mopping his forehead.

    “He is due to call this afternoon. I shall sound him out about his financial position.”

    “Er—mm. Think I might tool the curricle over to Nettleford,” he muttered. His sister appeared not even to notice this craven speech, and he slid out, mopping his brow again.

    There was no-one to whom he could safely impart his doubts on the subject of the Prince Alexei: Addie was so besotted with the fellow, she’d undoubtedly run and squawk out anything he said against him to Kitty. And if he did turn out to be a tradesman from Omsk or Tomsk, on the whole the Major wouldn’t put it past Kitty to brazen it out: to pull the wool over the eyes of the entire countryside. London would be out, though. And she’d be mad as fire. Well, they had better hope, for all their sakes, that in the worst scenario the fellow turned out to be merely in debt to his Royal eyebrows. –And by God, if Cornwallis said to him once more he could swear he’d seen the fellow somewhere, but was dashed if he could remember where, he, George Harrod, would strangle him with his bare hands!

    Sid was putting on a brave front for his fellow actors, but the interval while they waited for Joe to produce some Russian-looking documents in fact was damned nerve-racking. It had not been possible to get out of calling daily on his fiancée, and if at first she had seemed very satisfied merely to sit on the sofa with him, permitting him—nay, encouraging him—to kiss and fondle her, the which was not precisely a chore, after a week had gone by she had begun to hint that she would not half like to see some proof of his more financial capacities. In response Sid had become rather more passionate, which had had the slightly unfortunate result of making his not actually getting leg-oversky so much the more frustrating. He had not dared to insist, however: for one thing, it might strike her as so un-princely that she’d smell a rat. Added to which he still didn’t think she’d let him: not until the plain gold ring was on her finger. There was, incidentally, a ring now on the finger: it had come from Joe’s safe and was a very fine emerald. Sid had, frankly, no idea how they were ever going to get it back off the cow. He rather thought Joe had written it off.

    This afternoon Kitty suggested they stroll in the grounds of Dinsley House. Sid was immediately on the alert: the gardens were too public for her preferred occupation, so she must be up to something.

    After several artless remarks about the perfection of the day she suggested they sit down on a rustick bench. “I suppose,” she sighed, fluttering her lashes terrifically, “that we must come down out of the clouds at some time, my dear Prince, and talk of practical matters.”

    “Indeed, my dearest Kitty,” he murmured. “My mother was saying only this morning that h’if Mr Gordon did not vairy soon hurry down from London with my documents, you would be taking me for some sort off a naughty adventurer!”

    “Oh! Why, Prince, no such thing! No, but I confess, I have been thinking about the very practical matter,” said Kitty, lowering her eyes but not managing to produce a blush, “of where we are to live. I mean, should we give up your house, or mine?”

    “I have only a lease for the summer. Alors, shall we keep Dinsley House h’on? If you h’are happy with it, my angel, bien sûr.”

    Kitty was quite happy with the idea of lording it as the Princess Alexei in damned Jarvis Wynton’s county. So she agreed, and admitted soulfully that it was so very wonderful to be home in England, leading a country-house life again.

    “That is good,” said Sid softly, squeezing her hand. “For I have to confess that country life in Russia is ennuyant: a dead bore. Even on the principal estate; it is in a very obscure part off the country, and under ten feet of snow every winter.”

    Kitty shuddered and shivered obligingly.

    “Added to which, I must admit, my dear, that I could not afford to keep h’it up, if I did live there,” he said on a rueful note.

    Kitty took a deep breath. So her growing suspicions had been well founded. Well, George’s point was still valid: the Prince had a lot to offer: the title and the position were the important things—and then, he was thrillingly handsome, and not old, thank God! “I see. So it—it is run down, is it, my dearest?” she murmured.

    The Prince sighed heavily. “Yes. And not only that: the house is enormous: vairy much bigger than Maunsleigh; vairy old, largely stone—non? And it takes a positive army off servants to run, all off whom off course eat their heads off.”—Kitty nodded hard in agreement with this ungenerous statement, he noted with wry amusement.—“And avec ça, costs a fortune to heat, even though we have much timber. The stoves run all day and night h’in every room and corridor, for eight months of the year.”

    “Good Heavens,” said Kitty, frankly staring.

    “En effet. One can scarcely imagine it, h’if one has not known it: but think off the coldest English day you have known, in the depths of your winter, with snow thick upon the ground, and every drop off moisture turned to ice; and then multiply it...” He shivered artistically. “An hundredfold, it is not an exaggeration. That is the Russian winter, my leetle flower.”

    “It sounds terrible!” she said roundly.

    “Yes. And travel, of course, is impossible. Not that there is anywhere vairy much to go. Unless one fancies the shops of Minsk,” he finished with a shrug.

    “Minsk?” said Kitty faintly.

    “The nearest town—if one can call it that.”

    “But—” She swallowed. “What of Moscow? And St Petersburg?”

    “In the warmer months, off course. But St Petersburg is a three weeks’ journey, even in the good weather.”

    Kitty swallowed again.

    “So I was vairy glad to find a good tenant who required a long lease, and to get rid off the place, which was nothing but a burden to me! The other estates have tenants, too: and I theenk, my dove, that though h’I do not wish to worry your pretty head with the details,” he said bravely, “that you should know that thanks to the improvidence off my ancestors, all our land is vairy heavily mortgaged. So that much off what the tenants pay goes straight to the family’s creditors. –Do you understand?”

    “Yes,” said Kitty flatly.

    There was a short silence.

    “Off course, I have not come to England h’in a state off total impoverishment!” he said gaily, feeling inside his coat. “My mother said I had best show this to your brother, but if you would like to see— It is a document from a bank: voilà. Do you read French, mon adorée?”

    “Sufficient,” said Kitty grimly, reading it.

    Sid watched drily as the grim expression visibly relaxed. Doubtless she had expected a mortgage held by the bank, or some such.

    “I suppose,” he said ruefully: “that that letter represents my major asset h’in England.”

    “Yes. Thank you for showing me this, Prince. And for being so frank with me. If you care to wait until my brother returns from his drive, I should like him to see this.”

    “But off course.” Sid just waited.

    Kitty’s mouth firmed. “We must leave all the details to our men of business.”

    “D’accord, mon adorée,” he agreed, picking up her hand and kissing it gently. “Mr Gordon handles things most capably for me. Are you disappointed that we shall not live h’in Russia?”

    “No: it sounds horrid. I think we had best take a pleasant house in a good part of London.”

    “Certainement,” he murmured, kissing the hand again.

    Kitty allowed herself to sigh languorously and to look up into his face, and just to brush his thigh with hers. So that was all right! In fact she then permitted him to lead her back into the pink salon, and become considerably familiar with her. And what with the relief and so forth, Sid let himself go.

    “I h’apologize for not being laike h’an English gentleman,” he croaked into her shoulder.

    Kitty smiled a little, and said into his ear: “My darling Alexei, I’m very glad you’re not: for I could never abide them.”

    Even though half of that was a downright lie, Sid Bottomley at that precise moment very nearly said frankly: “Look, Kitty, we could give each other a damn’ good time while it lasted. Let’s drop the pretence that I’m a prince and you’re a lady, and get on with it.” But he remained within his rôle, and did not.

    … “Thought she’d take it off, actually,” he reported, holding the finger in question up for Harold Hartington’s inspection.

    Mr Hartington sniggered, but said: “Hot, then, was she?”

    Sid raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips in a soundless whistle, and shook his hand as if it had been bitten: so the actors gathered she had been.

    Harold Hartington then admitted, hitching the equipment slightly: “I wouldn’t half mind a bit from that direction, meself.”

    The younger men sniggered, but Sid said blandly: “Well, she fancied you as Peter Ivanovich, that’s true.”

    Mr Hartington grinned, and smoothed the wings of silver which had mysteriously appeared on his mysteriously sleek head, and patted the embonpoint which was now mysteriously adorning his hitherto flat, muscular middle, and said: “Will she fancy this, though?”

    Mr Vyvyan Fitzwallis and Mr Morley Masterson emitted helpless squawks.

    “Not that! This!” he said, grinning.

    “Well, no: gather that her late husband was stoutish and it didn’t appeal,” admitted Sid.

    “Och, weell, it’s a wee bitty o’ a pity,” he said, shaking his head.

    At this all of the actors, even Sid himself, collapsed in sniggers: Mr Harold Hartington’s accent as Mr Septimus Gordon was the Scotchest thing to have been heard within the borders of England since that great man’s own Macbeth had adorned the boards.

    Mr Gordon watched gravely while Mr Jameson and Major Harrod pored over his documents. “The translations are appended,” he murmured. Indeed they were: Mr Bottomley-Pugh did not do things by halves.

    Mr Jameson allowed judiciously that it all seemed clear enough, and that one could not, naturally, expect papers for the principal estates, which had been in the Prince’s family since the fourth century. And so, the disposable income would be—? His Highness looked confidently toward Mr Gordon. This confidence was not misplaced: Mr Hartington named a sum, and Mr Jameson and Major Harrod both nodded. Mr Jameson, clearing his throat, then ascertained just exactly what dependants the Prince had. The actors had debated this one and decided it would be neater if he didn’t, apart from the Grand Duchess. Sid was relieved to see that this went down rather well, especially with the Major.

    More throat-clearing; Mr Jameson then stated Mrs Marsh’s terms.

    Sid had to swallow: it was very clear His Highness need not expect, outside an allowance which was so far from being extravagant that “reasonable” probably summed it up best, to see a penny of his wife’s money. It was all about to be tied up very carefully in trusts and so forth, so that the Prince Alexei Alexandrovich would be her husband virtually in name only. And would not get a groat if she died: Lor’, did she expect a Russian knife in the back some dismal night on the Steppes? He agreed to it all, however—or rather, let Mr Gordon agree to it all for him; and signed all the papers that he was required to sign; and Mr Jameson and Major Harrod, having drunk a toast to the health of the affianced couple, took themselves off, the Major with an expression of vast relief which he was unable to hide.

    “Lor’, does she expect a knife in the back once the knot’s tied?” drawled Sid, stretching, and allowing himself to collapse onto the sofa.

    “Hey?” replied Mr Hartington vaguely.

    “Wake up! I’m saying the fortune’s tied up tight as a drum! It’s lucky I ain’t out to get me hands on it, or I would certainly shab off at this point!”

    “Mm.”

    “Harold,” said Sid with a laugh, “if you’re uneasy about seeing her tomorrow, I can promise you the muslin curtains will be drawn! She will not be half so anxious to get a good look at your complexion as to shield her own from the gaze of the curious!”

    “Hey? Oh,” he said sheepishly, touching his convincingly bright Scottish cheeks. “Not that.”

    “Well, what? Cold feet?”

    “No, of course not,” said Mr Hartington, pulling himself together. “Sounds all right, don’t it?”

    “Perfect: for a man what has an ambition to be her lap-dog for the rest of his life!”

    Mr Hartington agreed to this, and Sid did not perceive there was a certain wistful look in his eye.

    Their interview with Kitty the next day was all that Sid had expected of it and more. In the presence of the burly, if stout, Mr Gordon she became more flutteringly feminine than ever—using the eyes to great effect, almost achieving a modest blush, and declaring three times that she had no head for business and twice that she was but a silly widow. At the same time, managing to get a very clear grasp of His Highness’s precise financial position.

    “See?” he said as they retreated in the Dinsley Airs barouche. –Only Messrs Vyvyan Fitzwallis and Morley Masterson as outriders today, but impressive enough; especially since Sid himself was in the field-marshal’s uniform again.

    “Hey?” replied Mr Hartington vaguely.

    “Harold! What the Devil’s the matter with you? You played it to perfection, she never suspected a thing!”

    “No. Well, nor did the lawyer, more to the point.”

    “Exactly! And the thing’s been published, and she’s sending out the invitations to the damned engagement party: what’s the problem?”

    Mr Hartington grimaced. “Nothing. I admit she’s as hard as they come. I suppose I was just imagining meself in your place. Well—after what we said the t’other day about—” He coughed. “Taking your finger off, as it were.”

    Sid gulped. “You’ve been thinking of her?”

    “Mm. Don’t think she noticed, did you?”

    “Noticed— Oh!” he said with a laugh. “Harold, you’re male and under sixty! She’ll have noticed!”

    Mr Hartington made a rueful face. “Oh, well, dare say it ain’t no surprise to her that even Scottish lawyers have ’em.”

    “No!” he laughed. “Don’t worry, old friend, we’ve got away scot—so to speak—free!”

    Mr Hartington smiled weakly. “Mm.”

    The barouche jogged on gently.

    Harold Hartington cleared his throat. “Not that much under sixty,” he said glumly.

    Sid’s jaw dropped.

    “That’s right,” noted Sam Speede dispassionately from the box.

    “Uh—look, Harold,” said Sid awkwardly: “I meant nothing by it.”

    “I know that, Sid.” He sighed. “I was just thinking that if it was me, I dunno that I’d say no to a clever widow with a fortune, hard or no. Let her manage the money—who cares?”

    “The leg-oversky would be so good, in your opinion, that it would make up for being a damned lap-dog, would it?” he said, staring.

    “He’s too young to understand,” said Sam Speede to the ambient air.

    “Yes. And shut it,” sighed the actor-manager.

    Sid had gone rather red. “Um, are you thinking of giving up the stage, Harold?”

    “I’m thinking, Sid, but I can’t damn’ well afford to!”

    “Um—well, Joe would lend me the wherewithal: I could take over the company. We’d keep the name ‘Hartington’s Players’: good box-office,” he added quickly.

    Harold Hartington looked glumly at Sam Speede’s solid back. “Sam’s got an interest.”

    “Well, uh, that’d be all right. Whether you wanted to stay in or get out, Sam.”

    “No, the thing is,” said Mr Hartington heavily: “all my capital’s sunk in the company. If I did sell out—and I wouldn’t to no-one but you, Sid, or Sam himself—that would be all I’d have to come and go on. And I don’t fancy genteel poverty at Margate.”

    “Bognor Regis,” said Sam Speede sepulchrally.

    “Thanks,” agreed Mr Hartington drily.

    “I see,” said Sid, biting his lip. “Um, what about Lizzie Wainwright, Harold? Thought you was fixed up comfortably, there?”

    “Mrs Wainwright and I have come to a parting of the ways,” he said grimly.

    Mrs Wainwright had been Harold Hartington’s landlady, to say nothing more, for something like five years, now. “Oh, Lor’!” gulped Sid. “What went wrong?”

    “She found out all me capital’s sunk in the company, that’s what went wrong!” he said loudly and bitterly.

    “She’s told ’im not to come back,” agreed Mr Speede.

    Sid swallowed hard.

    “So if you think Kitty M.’s a hard case, you can think again,” noted Mr Speede. “For at least she knows His Royalness ain’t got a penny in her terms, but she’s taking him on anyway.”

    “For his pretty looks and his title. Oh, and the leg-oversky: I was forgetting that, for a minute,” said Mr Hartington sourly.

    “There won’t be any leg-oversky: the whole thing’s a hoax, Harold,” Sid reminded him limply.

    “So it is,” he said heavily. “But in your shoes I’d think about making it a permanent hoax.”

    That accomplished man of the theatre, Mr Roland Lefayne, could hardly manage to hide a wince at this too dreadful thought.

    The news of the engagement caused somewhat mixed reactions in Nettleford and environs.

    At Maunsleigh young Mr Crayshaw said to his employer in a strange voice: “Sir, have you seen this?”

    “No.”

    Mutely Mr Crayshaw held the newspaper out.

    Lord Sleyven stared numbly at the announcement of the engagement of Mrs Marsh to the Prince Alexei Alexandrovich.

    “Perhaps he’ll take her to Russia, sir,” murmured the young man.

    “Or to Hell: who cares which?” he said with a sigh, passing the paper back to him. “Thank you, Jonathon.”

    Mr Crayshaw hesitated, and then said: “Sir—um—as to the little girl—”

    “It will not affect the allowance, or the trust,” he said coolly.

    No doubt: but what if Mrs Marsh dragged the Earl’s daughter off to Russia? Mr Crayshaw, however, found he did not have the courage to say so, as his employer was evidently not willing to admit he had realised that that was what he was hinting at; and took himself and his paper quietly away.

    At the Deanery Lady Judith said with a laugh: “What a relief! Let’s hope he takes the woman away to darkest Tomsk!”

    “Mm.” The Dean looked at the advertisement. “He has certainly used all his titles here,” he murmured.

    “Why, yes! So even though the Princess Esterhazy cannot vouch for them, they must be genuine!” said his wife gaily.

    “Judith, that does not follow,” said Lady Caroline with majestic calm.

    “No: quite,” agreed the Dean.

    “What? Oh, really!” she cried.

    “I grant it makes it seem less likely that he is in truth a merchant from Tomsk,” said the elderly lady drily. “It does not, however, rule out the possibility of his being an even bolder impostor than we had envisaged.”

    Lady Judith’s mouth tightened. “So long as he gets the woman out from under Sleyven’s feet, I care not what he be!”

    At Verne Lea reactions were definitely mixed. Certainly the gentlemen were, if not ecstatic, highly entertained. “Here, I tell you what, Leonard!” said Mr Patterson with a laugh. “She’ll throw the most tremendous party to celebrate this damned engagement!”

    “Aye!” choked Captain Cornwallis, going into a paroxysm.

    “How can you sit there laughing over it?” cried Mrs Patterson angrily. “The woman will be unbearable, now!”

    “Thought you maintained she already was?” returned the Captain cheerfully. “Here, I say, Percival: dare say she’ll roast a whole bullock on the lawn at Dinsley House!”

    “Aye: roast sucking-pigs won’t get a look-in!” he choked.

    Captain Cornwallis rubbed his hands. “I give you fair warning: wild horses won’t get me out of the house until she has thrown it!”

    “Thought you was slated to go shootin’ with Ivo this August?” said his brother-in-law.

    “Ivo can go hang! I wouldn’t miss this for ten Scotch moors and all the grouse they can hold!”

    On reflection, Mr Patterson could only agree with him.

    In the vicarage at Lower Nettlefold Amanda burst into choking sobs and ran from the room.

    “There!” said Miss Waldgrave. “What did I tell you?”

    “Very well!” screamed her mother. “Go to Oxford, stay with that bluestocking, and turn yourself into just such a creature as she, Eugenia! I am sure I do not care!”

    “I shall go and pack,” said Miss Waldgrave composedly, exiting.

    Portia had thought the news of the engagement very thrilling. She looked at her mother’s face and did not dare to voice this sentiment.

    At the Miss Whites’ emporium in the town the proprietors politely expressed great interest—at least to their customer. “Never tell us, Miss Humphreys!” said Miss White, refraining from catching her sister’s eye. “That pretty lady from Dinsley House? A real prince! Well, fancy that, now.”

    The innocent Miss Humphreys having departed, very pleased at having been first with the news at the Miss Whites’, Miss Janet noted sourly: “That’s her out of the way. And if what Mrs Shelby was sayin’ is roight, and he ain’t but a grocer’s son from Poland, so much the better. And let’s hope he runs orf with ’er fortune, too!”

    “Ar. Well, even if ’e’s a real prince, that leaves Miss Burden a clear run with the Earl, don’t it?

    “Roight!”

    The two spinster shopkeepers smiled at each other.

    The initiators of the plot were, of course, delighted at its success. “Oi’ll frame this notice!” declared Mr Bottomley-Pugh, shaking all over.

    “Not until it’s over, though!” gasped Mrs Newbiggin, also shaking helplessly.

    “Roight.”

    Recovering, Mrs Newbiggin noted shrewdly: “It’s all very well to say he’s been and gone and done it—and I’m the first to admoire ’im for it: but published in the paper? Ain’t that lettin’ himself in for a court case?”

    “Ah! But is it? For Sid ain’t got nothin’ she can sue ’im for, and then, will she want to force him to marry her, when she foinds out?”

    Mrs Newbiggin had to admit she wouldn’t: no. She refrained from pointing out that the lady would probably want very much to see him clapped up in Newgate, though.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/11/suspicion.html