Smallbone Deceased

“Sergeant Cockerill will have a screwdriver. He keeps things like that. Can you think of a town in Bessarabia in ten letters?”

“Not at the moment.”

When Henry came back he brought Sergeant Cockerill with him. The sergeant assessed the damage with an expert eye, grasped the back of the chair firmly in his right hand, picked up a screwdriver and gave some exploratory twists.

“Screw’s worked right loose. I’ll have to plug it first.”

“Azerbaijan,” said John.

“Take the chair away with you if you like,” said Henry. “I can use this spare one.”

“Where’s Mrs. Porter going to sit,” said John, “on your knee?”

“I’ll fix you up, sir. There’s a spare in the tea-room.” The sergeant picked up the swivel chair in one surprisingly muscular hand and departed.

“I’m afraid it can’t be Azerbaijan,” said John, “or we shall have to find a word beginning JV—”

“Anyway, I don’t believe Azerbaijan is in Bessarabia.”

“Delendum est. By the way, what’s wrong with the Chittering this morning?”

“I don’t know,” said Henry. “Now that you mention it, she did look a bit cool when I said good morning to her.”

“Cool! That’s an understatement. She’s behaving like the young lady in Handel’s aria. You know: where’er she walks cool gales shall fan the glade—”

“I believe she’s annoyed about something La Cornel said. She cast aspersions on the parentage of her dressing-case. Said that it wasn’t crocodile, or alternatively, if crocodile not Congo crocodile.”

“Girls, girls.”

“Upon which Miss Chittering cast counter-aspersions upon Miss Cornel’s fur coat—”

“What an awful thing it must be,” said John complacently, “to have a quarrelsome nature. I have always managed to look on the lighter side of these unfortunate differences which, we must face it, do crop up from time to time. I remember when I was expelled from Rugby at the age of seventeen… However, I won’t distract you, for I see you want to work.”

“I am getting things a bit more sorted out.” Henry picked up a letter. “I still can’t quite see what the Duke of Hampshire actually wants us to do.”

“Doesn’t he say? They do sometimes, if you read the letters right through. The gist of it’s usually in the ducal postscript.”

“It’s plain enough. He wants us to realise the securities in his marriage settlement and reinvest them in the construction of a Channel tunnel. We seem to have written a number of letters to him pointing out—”

“Oh, he’s quite mad,” said John. “I believe his grandfather got a red-hot tip from Disraeli and cleared a packet on the Suez Canal. Gave the family rather a fixe about short cuts and transportation stock.”

“Yes,” said Henry, “but what do I say to him?”

“Say you’re consulting the brokers and what are the prospects for the salmon fishing this summer.”

“All right,” said Henry doubtfully.

At least ten minutes were devoted to work before the door opened again. Henry saw that it was the man whom he had noticed sitting next to Anne Mildmay at the staff dinner.

“What do you want?” said John. “If you’ve come to borrow the Law List it’s not here. If you want your copy of Tristram and Coote, I’ve lent it to Bob.”

“Thought I’d drop in and say hello,” said the newcomer, ignoring this. “If John won’t introduce me, old fellow, I’d better do it myself. I’m Eric Duxford.” He clicked on a smile.

“Rise,” said John to Bohun, “fall forward on both knees, and knock your forehead seven times on the floor.”

“Very good of you to bother,” said Henry. “I gather that you used to share this room with John.”

“Yes,” said Duxford. “Yes, I did.” It did not need much discernment to see that Eric Duxford disliked John Cove perhaps even a shade more than John disliked him.

“We were a famous pair,” said John. “‘Blest pair of sirens, pledges of Heaven’s joy. Sphere-born harmonious brothers.’ Debenham and Freebody, Fortnum and Mason, Duxford and Cove… Inseparable—”

“Yes. Well, you must come and have lunch with me, Bohun; we’ll run up to my club.”

“It’s not an easy club to run up to,” said John, “since it occupies a basement in Fleet Street. The United Philatelists and Numismatists. It shares the premises with the P.P.P. or Pornographic Photographic Publications, and the S.S.S. or—”

“You mustn’t pay too much attention to Cove,” said Duxford coldly. “He suffers from a suppressed inferiority complex. That’s why he talks so much. Actually I belong to the Public Schools—”

“I’d love to have lunch with you some day,” said Henry hastily, forestalling a perfectly outrageous remark by John.

“Very good of you to bother.”

“Not at all,” said Duxford. “We must all muck in and help one another, eh? That’s what makes the world go round.”

“Well,” said John, when the door had closed on their visitor. “Now you’ve plumbed the depths. If you want to get out, the emergency hatch is under the pilot’s seat—”

“Oh, come on,” said Henry, “he isn’t as bad as that. A bit hearty.”