MORE ON THE FLOWER-POT THEME
In any community in which a sensational crime has recently been
committed, the feelings of the individuals who go to make up that
community must of necessity vary somewhat sharply according to the
degree in which the personal fortunes of each are affected by the
outrage. Vivid in their own way as may be the emotions of one who sees
a fellow-citizen sandbagged in a quiet street, they differ in kind from
those experienced by the victim himself. And so, though the theft of
Lady Constance Keeble’s diamond necklace had stirred Blandings Castle
to its depths, it had not affected all those present in quite the
same way. It left the house-party divided into two distinct schools
of thought--the one finding in the occurrence material for gloom and
despondency, the other deriving from it nothing but joyful excitement.
To this latter section belonged those free young spirits who had
chafed at the prospect of being herded into the drawing-room on the
eventful night to listen to Psmith’s reading of _Songs of Squalor_.
It made them tremble now to think of what they would have missed, had
Lady Constance’s vigilance relaxed sufficiently to enable them to
execute the quiet sneak for the billiard-room of which even at the
eleventh hour they had thought so wistfully. As far as the Reggies,
Berties, Claudes, and Archies at that moment enjoying Lord Emsworth’s
hospitality were concerned the thing was top-hole, priceless, and
indisputably what the doctor ordered. They spent a great deal of their
time going from one country-house to another, and as a rule found the
routine a little monotonous. A happening like that of the previous
night gave a splendid zip to rural life. And when they reflected that,
right on top of this binge, there was coming the County Ball, it seemed
to them that God was in His heaven and all right with the world. They
stuck cigarettes in long holders, and collected in groups, chattering
like starlings.
The gloomy brigade, those with hearts bowed down, listened to their
effervescent babbling with wan distaste. These last were a small body
numerically, but very select. Lady Constance might have been described
as their head and patroness. Morning found her still in a state
bordering on collapse. After breakfast, however, which she took in her
room, and which was sweetened by an interview with Mr. Joseph Keeble,
her husband, she brightened considerably. Mr. Keeble, thought Lady
Constance, behaved magnificently. She had always loved him dearly, but
never so much as when, abstaining from the slightest reproach of her
obstinacy in refusing to allow the jewels to be placed in the bank, he
spaciously informed her that he would buy her another necklace, just
as good and costing every penny as much as the old one. It was at this
point that Lady Constance almost seceded from the ranks of gloom. She
kissed Mr. Keeble gratefully, and attacked with something approaching
animation the boiled egg at which she had been pecking when he came in.
But a few minutes later the average of despair was restored by the
enrolment of Mr. Keeble in the ranks of the despondent. He had
gladsomely assumed overnight that one of his agents, either Eve or
Freddie, had been responsible for the disappearance of the necklace.
The fact that Freddie, interviewed by stealth in his room, gapingly
disclaimed any share in the matter had not damped him. He had never
expected results from Freddie. But when, after leaving Lady Constance,
he encountered Eve and was given a short outline of history, beginning
with her acquisition of the necklace, and ending--like a modern
novel--on the sombre note of her finding the flower-pot gone, he too
sat him down and mourned as deeply as anyone.
Passing with a brief mention over Freddie, whose morose bearing was
the subject of considerable comment among the younger set; over Lord
Emsworth, who woke at twelve o’clock disgusted to find that he had
missed several hours among his beloved flower-beds; and over the
Efficient Baxter, who was roused from sleep at twelve-fifteen by Thomas
the footman knocking on his door in order to hand him a note from his
employer enclosing a cheque, and dispensing with his services; we come
to Miss Peavey.
At twenty minutes past eleven on this morning when so much was
happening to so many people, Miss Peavey stood in the Yew Alley gazing
belligerently at the stemless mushroom finial of a tree about half-way
between the entrance and the point where the alley merged into the
west wood. She appeared to be soliloquising. For, though words were
proceeding from her with considerable rapidity, there seemed to be no
one in sight to whom they were being addressed. Only an exceptionally
keen observer would have noted a slight significant quivering among the
tree’s tightly-woven branches.
“You poor bone-headed fish,” the poetess was saying with that
strained tenseness which results from the churning up of a generous
and emotional nature, “isn’t there anything in this world you can do
without tumbling over your feet and making a mess of it? All I ask of
you is to stroll under a window and pick up a few jewels, and now you
come and tell me . . .”
“But, Liz!” said the tree plaintively.
“I do all the difficult part of the job. All that there was left for
you to handle was something a child of three could have done on its
ear. And now . . .”
“But, Liz! I’m telling you I couldn’t find the stuff. I was down there
all right, but I couldn’t find it.”
“You couldn’t find it!” Miss Peavey pawed restlessly at the soft turf
with a shapely shoe. “You’re the sort of dumb Isaac that couldn’t find
a bass-drum in a telephone-booth. You didn’t _look_.”
“I did look. Honest, I did.”
“Well, the stuff was there. I threw it down the moment the lights went
out.”
“Somebody must have got there first, and swiped it.”
“Who could have got there first? Everybody was up in the room where I
was.
“Am I sure? Am I . . .” The poetess’s voice trailed off. She was
staring down the Yew Alley at a couple who had just entered. She hissed
a warning in a sharp undertone. “Hsst! Cheese it, Ed. There’s someone
coming.”
The two intruders who had caused Miss Peavey to suspend her remarks to
her erring lieutenant were of opposite sexes--a tall girl with fair
hair, and a taller young man irreproachably clad in white flannels
who beamed down at his companion through a single eyeglass. Miss
Peavey gazed at them searchingly as they approached. A sudden thought
had come to her at the sight of them. Mistrusting Psmith as she had
done ever since Mr. Cootes had unmasked him for the impostor that he
was, the fact that they were so often together had led her to extend
her suspicion to Eve. It might, of course, be nothing but a casual
friendship, begun here at the castle; but Miss Peavey had always felt
that Eve would bear watching. And now, seeing them together again this
morning, it had suddenly come to her that she did not recall having
observed Eve among the gathering in the drawing-room last night. True,
there had been many people present, but Eve’s appearance was striking,
and she was sure that she would have noticed her, if she had been
there. And, if she had not been there, why should she not have been
on the terrace? Somebody had been on the terrace last night, that was
certain. For all her censorious attitude in their recent conversation,
Miss Peavey had not really in her heart believed that even a dumb-bell
like Eddie Cootes would not have found the necklace if it had been
lying under the window on his arrival.
“Oh, good morning, Mr. McTodd,” she cooed. “I’m feeling _so_ upset
about this terrible affair. Aren’t _you_, Miss Halliday?”
“Yes,” said Eve, and she had never said a more truthful word.
Psmith, for his part, was in more debonair and cheerful mood even than
was his wont. He had examined the position of affairs and found life
good. He was particularly pleased with the fact that he had persuaded
Eve to stroll with him this morning and inspect his cottage in the
woods. Buoyant as was his temperament, he had been half afraid that
last night’s interview on the terrace might have had disastrous effects
on their intimacy. He was now feeling full of kindliness and goodwill
towards all mankind--even Miss Peavey; and he bestowed on the poetess
a dazzling smile.
“We must always,” he said, “endeavour to look on the bright side. It
was a pity, no doubt, that my reading last night had to be stopped at
a cost of about twenty thousand pounds to the Keeble coffers, but let
us not forget that but for that timely interruption I should have gone
on for about another hour. I am like that. My friends have frequently
told me that when once I start talking it requires something in the
nature of a cataclysm to stop me. But, of course, there are drawbacks
to everything, and last night’s rannygazoo perhaps shook your nervous
system to some extent?”
“I was dreadfully frightened,” said Miss Peavey. She turned to Eve with
a delicate shiver. “Weren’t _you_, Miss Halliday?”
“I wasn’t there,” said Eve absently.
“Miss Halliday,” explained Psmith, “has had in the last few days
some little experience of myself as orator, and with her usual good
sense decided not to go out of her way to get more of me than was
absolutely necessary. I was perhaps a trifle wounded at the moment,
but on thinking it over came to the conclusion that she was perfectly
justified in her attitude. I endeavour always in my conversation to
instruct, elevate, and entertain, but there is no gainsaying the fact
that a purist might consider enough of my chit-chat to be sufficient.
Such, at any rate, was Miss Halliday’s view, and I honour her for it.
But here I am, rambling on again just when I can see that you wish to
be alone. We will leave you, therefore, to muse. No doubt we have been
interrupting a train of thought which would have resulted but for my
arrival in a rondel or a ballade or some other poetic morceau. Come,
Miss Halliday. A weird and repellent female,” he said to Eve as they
drew out of hearing, “created for some purpose which I cannot fathom.
Everything in this world, I like to think, is placed there for some
useful end: but why the authorities unleashed Miss Peavey on us is
beyond me. It is not too much to say that she gives me a pain in the
gizzard.”
Miss Peavey, unaware of these harsh views, had watched them out of
sight, and now she turned excitedly to the tree which sheltered her
ally.
“Ed!”
“Hello?” replied the muffled voice of Mr. Cootes.
“Did you hear?”
“No.”
“Oh, my heavens!” cried his overwrought partner. “He’s gone deaf now!
That girl--you didn’t hear what she was saying? She said that she
wasn’t in the drawing-room when those lights went out. Ed, she was down
below on the terrace, that’s where she was, picking up the stuff. And
if it isn’t hidden somewheres in that McTodd’s shack down there in the
woods I’ll eat my Sunday rubbers.”
Eve, with Psmith prattling amiably at her side, pursued her way
through the wood. She was wondering why she had come. She ought, she
felt, to have been very cold and distant to this young man after what
had occurred between them last night. But somehow it was difficult
to be cold and distant with Psmith. He cheered her stricken soul. By
the time they reached the little clearing and came in sight of the
squat, shed-like building with its funny windows and stained door, her
spirits, always mercurial, had risen to a point where she found herself
almost able to forget her troubles.
“What a horrible-looking place!” she exclaimed. “Whatever did you want
it for?”
“Purely as a nook,” said Psmith, taking out his key. “You know how the
man of sensibility and refinement needs a nook. In this rushing age
it is imperative that the thinker shall have a place, however humble,
where he can be alone.”
“But you aren’t a thinker.”
“You wrong me. For the last few days I have been doing some extremely
brisk thinking. And the strain has taken its toll. The fierce whirl of
life at Blandings is wearing me away. There are dark circles under my
eyes and I see floating spots.” He opened the door. “Well, here we are.
Will you pop in for a moment?”
Eve went in. The single sitting-room of the cottage certainly bore out
the promise of the exterior. It contained a table with a red cloth, a
chair, three stuffed birds in a glass case on the wall, and a small
horsehair sofa. A depressing musty scent pervaded the place, as if a
cheese had recently died there in painful circumstances. Eve gave a
little shiver of distaste.
“I understand your silent criticism,” said Psmith. “You are saying to
yourself that plain living and high thinking is evidently the ideal of
the gamekeepers on the Blandings estate. They are strong, rugged men
who care little for the refinements of interior decoration. But shall
we blame them? If I had to spend most of the day and night chivvying
poachers and keeping an eye on the local rabbits, I imagine that in my
off-hours practically anything with a roof would satisfy me. It was in
the hope that you might be able to offer some hints and suggestions
for small improvements here and there that I invited you to inspect
my little place. There is no doubt that it wants doing up a bit, by
a woman’s gentle hand. Will you take a look round and give out a few
ideas? The wall-paper is, I fear, a fixture, but in every other
direction consider yourself untrammelled.”
Eve looked about her.
“Well,” she began dubiously, “I don’t think . . .”
She stopped abruptly, tingling all over. A second glance had shown
her something which her first careless inspection had overlooked.
Half hidden by a ragged curtain, there stood on the window-sill a
large flower-pot containing a geranium. And across the surface of the
flower-pot was a broad splash of white paint.
“You were saying . . . ?” said Psmith courteously.
Eve did not reply. She hardly heard him. Her mind was in a confused
whirl. A monstrous suspicion was forming itself in her brain.
“You are admiring the shrub?” said Psmith. “I found it lying about up
at the castle this morning and pinched it. I thought it would add a
touch of colour to the place.”
Eve, looking at him keenly as his gaze shifted to the flower-pot, told
herself that her suspicion had been absurd. Surely this blandness could
not be a cloak for guilt.
“Where did you find it?”
“By one of the windows in the hall, more or less wasting its sweetness.
I am bound to say I am a little disappointed in the thing. I had a sort
of idea it would turn the old homestead into a floral bower, but it
doesn’t seem to.”
“It’s a beautiful geranium.”
“There,” said Psmith, “I cannot agree with you. It seems to me to have
the glanders or something.”
“It only wants watering.”
“And unfortunately this cosy little place appears to possess no water
supply. I take it that the late proprietor when in residence used to
trudge to the back door of the castle and fetch what he needed in a
bucket. If this moribund plant fancies that I am going to spend my time
racing to and fro with refreshments, it is vastly mistaken. To-morrow
it goes into the dustbin.”
Eve shut her eyes. She was awed by a sense of having arrived at a
supreme moment. She had the sensations of a gambler who risks all on a
single throw.
“What a shame!” she said, and her voice, though she tried to control
it, shook. “You had better give it to me. I’ll take care of it. It’s
just what I want for my room.”
“Pray take it,” said Psmith. “It isn’t mine, but pray take it. And very
encouraging it is, let me add, that you should be accepting gifts from
me in this hearty fashion; for it is well known that there is no surer
sign of the dawning of the divine emotion--love,” he explained, “than
this willingness to receive presents from the hands of the adorer. I
make progress, I make progress.”
“You don’t do anything of the kind,” said Eve. Her eyes were sparkling
and her heart sang within her. In the revulsion of feeling which had
come to her on finding her suspicions unfounded she was aware of a warm
friendliness towards this absurd young man.
“Pardon me,” said Psmith firmly. “I am quoting an established
authority--Auntie Belle of _Home Gossip_.”
“I must be going,” said Eve. She took the flower-pot and hugged it to
her. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Work, work, always work!” sighed Psmith. “The curse of the age. Well,
I will escort you back to your cell.”
“No, you won’t,” said Eve. “I mean, thank you for your polite offer,
but I want to be alone.”
“Alone?” Psmith looked at her, astonished. “When you have the chance
of being with _me_? This is a strange attitude.”
“Good-bye,” said Eve. “Thank you for being so hospitable and lavish.
I’ll try to find some cushions and muslin and stuff to brighten up this
place.”
“Your presence does that adequately,” said Psmith, accompanying her to
the door. “By the way, returning to the subject we were discussing last
night, I forgot to mention, when asking you to marry me, that I can do
card-tricks.”
“Really?”
“And also a passable imitation of a cat calling to her young. Has this
no weight with you? Think! These things come in very handy in the long
winter evenings.”
“But I shan’t be there when you are imitating cats in the long winter
evenings.”
“I think you are wrong. As I visualise my little home, I can see you
there very clearly, sitting before the fire. Your maid has put you into
something loose. The light of the flickering flames reflects itself
in your lovely eyes. You are pleasantly tired after an afternoon’s
shopping, but not so tired as to be unable to select a card--_any_
card--from the pack which I offer . . .”
“Good-bye,” said Eve.
“If it must be so--good-bye. For the present. I shall see you anon?”
“I expect so.”
“Good! I will count the minutes.”
* * * * *
Eve walked rapidly away. As she snuggled the flower-pot under her arm
she was feeling like a child about to open its Christmas stocking.
Before she had gone far, a shout stopped her and she perceived Psmith
galloping gracefully in her wake.
“Can you spare me a moment?” said Psmith.
“Certainly.”
“I should have added that I can also recite ‘Gunga-Din.’ Will you think
that over?”
“I will.”
“Thank you,” said Psmith. “Thank you. I have a feeling that it may just
turn the scale.”
He raised his hat ambassadorially and galloped away again.
* * * * *
Eve found herself unable to wait any longer. Psmith was out of sight
now, and the wood was very still and empty. Birds twittered in the
branches, and the sun made little pools of gold upon the ground. She
cast a swift glance about her and crouched down in the shelter of a
tree.
The birds stopped singing. The sun no longer shone. The wood had become
cold and sinister. For Eve, with a heart of lead, was staring blankly
at a little pile of mould at her feet; mould which she had sifted again
and again in a frenzied, fruitless effort to find a necklace which was
not there.
The empty flower-pot seemed to leer up at her in mockery.