The Greatest Works of E. F. Benson (Illustrated Edition). E. F. Benson
to set below the flat grey horizon of the sea.
"I don't know if you'll like it," said Daisy, "but it's your Lucia. I sent her a little note of condolence about the aunt, and she says it has been a terrible blow to Peppino and herself. They hoped that the old lady might have been spared them a few years yet."
"No!" said Georgie, wiping the moisture off his forehead with the back of one of his beautiful pearl-grey gloves.
"But she did," said the infuriated Daisy, "they were her very words. I could show you if I hadn't dug it in. Such a pack of nonsense! I hope that long before I've been bedridden for seven years, somebody will strangle me with a bootlace, or anything handy. Why does Lucia pretend to be sorry? What does it all mean?"
Georgie had long been devoted henchman to Lucia (Mrs Lucas, wife of Philip Lucas, and so Lucia), and though he could criticise her in his mind, when he was alone in his bed or his bath, he always championed her in the face of the criticism of others. Whereas Daisy criticised everybody everywhere . . .
"Perhaps it means what it says," he observed with the delicate sarcasm that never had any effect on his neighbour.
"It can't possibly do that," said Mrs Quantock. "Neither Lucia nor Peppino have set eyes on his aunt for years, nor spoken of her. Last time Peppino went to see her she bit him. Sling for a week afterwards, don't you remember, and he was terrified of blood-poisoning. How can her death be a blow, and as for her being spared —"
Mrs Quantock suddenly broke off, remembering that de Vere was still standing there and drinking it all in.
"That's all, de Vere," she said.
"Thank you, ma'am," said de Vere, striding back towards the house. She had high-heeled shoes on, and each time she lifted her foot, the heel which had been embedded by her weight in the soft lawn came out with the sound of a cork being drawn. Then Daisy came closer to the fence, with the light of inductive reasoning, which was much cultivated at Riseholme, veiling the fury of her eye.
"Georgie, I've got it," she said. "I've guessed what it means."
Now though Georgie was devoted to his Lucia, he was just as devoted to inductive reasoning, and Daisy Quantock was, with the exception of himself, far the most powerful logician in the place.
"What is it, then?" he asked.
"Stupid of me not to have thought of it at once," said Daisy. "Why, don't you see? Peppino is Auntie's heir, for she was unmarried, and he's the only nephew, and probably he has been left piles and piles. So naturally they say it's a terrible blow. Wouldn't do to be exultant. They must say it's a terrible blow, to show they don't care about the money. The more they're left, the sadder it is. So natural. I blame myself for not having thought of it at once. Have you seen her since?"
"Not for a quiet talk," said Georgie. "Peppino was there, and a man who, I think, was Peppino's lawyer. He was frightfully deferential."
"That proves it," said Daisy. "And nothing said of any kind?"
Georgie's face screwed itself up in the effort to remember.
"Yes, there was something," he said, "but I was talking to Lucia, and the others were talking rather low. But I did hear the lawyer say something to Peppino about pearls. I do remember the word pearls. Perhaps it was the old lady's pearls."
Mrs Quantock gave a short laugh.
"It couldn't have been Peppino's," she said. "He has one in a tie-pin. It's called pear-shaped, but there's little shape about it. When do wills come out?"
"Oh, ages," said Georgie. "Months. And there's a house in London, I know."
"Whereabouts?" asked Daisy greedily.
Georgie's face assumed a look of intense concentration.
"I couldn't tell you for certain," he said, "but I know Peppino went up to town not long ago to see about some repairs to his aunt's house, and I think it was the roof."
"It doesn't matter where the repairs were," said Daisy impatiently. "I want to know where the house was."
"You interrupt me," said Georgie. "I was telling you. I know he went to Harrod's afterwards and walked there, because he and Lucia were dining with me and he said so. So the house must have been close to Harrod's, quite close I mean, because it was raining, and if it had been any reasonable distance he would have had a taxi. So it might be Knightsbridge."
Mrs Quantock put on her gardening gloves again.
"How frightfully secretive people are," she said. "Fancy his never having told you where his aunt's house was."
"But they never spoke of her," said Georgie. "She's been in that nursing-home so many years."
"You may call it a nursing-home," observed Mrs Quantock, "or, if you choose, you may call it a post-office. But it was an asylum. And they're just as secretive about the property."
"But you never talk about the property till after the funeral," said Georgie. "I believe it's tomorrow."
Mrs Quantock gave a prodigious sniff.
"They would have, if there hadn't been any," she said.
"How horrid you are," said Georgie. "How —"
His speech was cut off by several loud sneezes. However beautiful the sleeve-links, it wasn't wise to stand without a coat after being in such a heat.
"How what?" asked Mrs Quantock, when the sneezing was over.
"I've forgotten now. I shall get back to my rolling. A little chilly. I've done half the lawn."
A telephone bell had been ringing for the last few seconds, and Mrs Quantock localised it as being in his house, not hers. Georgie was rather deaf, however much he pretended not to be.
"Your telephone bell's ringing, Georgie," she said.
"I thought it was," said Georgie, who had not heard it at all.
"And come in presently for a cup of tea," shouted Mrs Quantock.
"Should love to. But I must have a bath first."
Georgie hurried indoors, for a telephone call usually meant a little gossip with a friend. A very familiar voice, though a little husky and broken, asked if it was he.
"Yes, it's me, Lucia," he said in soft firm tones of sympathy. "How are you?"
Lucia sighed. It was a long, very audible, intentional sigh. Georgie could visualise her putting her mouth quite close to the telephone, so as to make sure it carried. "Quite well," she said. "And so is my Peppino, thank heaven. Bearing up wonderfully. He's just gone."
Georgie was on the point of asking where, but guessed in time.
"I see," he said. "And you didn't go. I'm very glad. So wise."
"I felt I couldn't," she said, "and he urged me not. It's tomorrow. He sleeps in London tonight —"
(Again Georgie longed to say "where," for it was impossible not to wonder if he would sleep in the house of unknown locality near Harrod's.)
"And he'll be back tomorrow evening," said Lucia without pause. "I wonder if you would take pity on me and come and dine. Just something to eat, you know: the house is so upset. Don't dress."
"Delighted," said Georgie, though he had ordered oysters. But they could be scolloped for tomorrow . . . "Love to come."
"Eight o'clock then? Nobody else of course. If you care to bring our Mozart duet."
"Rather," said Georgie. "Good for you to be occupied, Lucia. We'll have a good go at it."
"Dear Georgie," said Lucia faintly. He heard her sigh again, not quite so successfully, and replace the earpiece with a click.
Georgie moved away from the telephone, feeling immensely busy: there was so much to think about and to do. The first thing was to speak about the oysters, and, his parlour-maid being out, he called down the kitchen-stairs. The absence of Foljambe made it necessary for him to