Chapter 21

Henry's father had cautioned him about putting his eggs in one basket. It was practically a family motto, although no-one phrased it that way to his uncle who was apt to be both pompous and humourless.

That signet ring – three mice. Henry would cheerful admit –at least to himself – that he could be as lazy as the next man. He did, however, consider himself an intelligent man, and it would surely be folly to let slip a golden opportunity for want of a little effort. Of course any young Englishman who worked as a private secretary to a wealthy American gentleman of independent means had his own methods of ensuring that his knowledge of the British aristocracy was, if required, encyclopaedic. (Alas, that such employment opportunities were drying up! The last post had been more onerous that previous ones – a sure sign that employers knew the marketplace was over supplied with employees.)

The three mice on the signet ring led him to the Wimseys. A dukedom, a very old scandal (nothing that need bother him) and a more well-known younger son. Now no longer so young. St. George was a courtesy title and, Henry flicked a page over, the delightful Lady St. George was a widow. She had been so for the best part of nine years.

She would not, surely, have been short of offers in that time? Her failure to remarry – did it indicate a devoted resolution not marry again or simply that by doing so she would say goodbye to any allowance from the Duke of Denver?

Henry saw Lady St George, here and there about Valetta, raised his hat to her and was acknowledged, even chatted to her and her rather eccentric friend. (What was a jibboom, or for that matter a bobstay – except obviously things that would be found together?) He wasn't at all sure that he was getting anywhere, however.

"Daddy, I don't like Mr Crayford."

"Why not, Jane?"

"He stops us in the street and talks about boring things to Auntie Dot. And you can tell he wishes we weren't there. And we wish he wasn't there. Auntie Dot came to see us, not him. And when Mummy's there and she asks him questions – you know, grown-up questions about places with difficult names and boring things – he tries not to answer them. It's naughty not to answer questions when Mummy asks them, isn't it?"

John thought this was probably a reference to this yesterday's incident with the blue pottery bowl. It had appeared one day in the house without much in the way of an explanation. John thought the pattern looked North African. Julia had been very much taken with it and had been playing alone in the sitting room one day while her parents were trying, without much success, to remove a splinter from Jane's finger in the better light of the courtyard when a crash was heard from the sitting room. John and Nancy had both rushed to the rescue. Some of the pieces of pottery were still moving on the floor as they reached the door and part the broken rim of the bowl was still in Julia's hand.

"Are you hurt? What happened to the bowl?"

"Jane dwopped it." Julia had been able to say her "r"s properly for months now, when it suited her. Luckily for sisterly unity, Jane had not heard that. Jane clearly had heard her parents telling Julia that it was not the accident, it was lack of a truthful answer to Nancy's question that had made them cross.

"I expect he'll go back to wherever he lives soon." John said. "Look, do you want to put this blue paint on your luzzu? See if you can do it really carefully and keep it this side of the pencil line."

Lieutenant Marlow had in any case been giving John some cause for concern. Finding the opportunity to speak to him wasn't that difficult. John knew that Titty would have got the conversation to where he wanted it more neatly.

"Crayford? No, I've not met him before. His Ma is a friend of my grandmother's, but she lives in France, so we hardly see her. If she wasn't at school with the Jemmerling girls, it was something like that." Marlow glanced at the Commander. "He hasn't been asking the wrong sort of question, if that's what's bothering you – and I knew he existed of course. He hasn't just made up the connection or anything like that."

"So what is bothering you?"

Marlow's glance was a bit sharper this time. "Nothing. At least nothing here. Feeling a bit of a heel for staying here and landing my sister with running the farm, if you must know. Not enough of a heel to do anything about it. But the farm manager's had a heart attack and my next younger sister has fallen out with the Ro – that's the one who's running the farm about it and .." Marlow shrugged. "I suppose if you don't have a parcel of sisters you won't understand."

"I've got three myself. How many sisters is a surfeit?"

"More than three, evidently." A flash of the nonchalant smile and John knew the barriers were back up. "Six of them – and a brother. Rowan's the sort who's good at running things – good at things full stop. So I suppose it may as well be the farm really."

" …but Jemmerling sounds familiar. A long time ago familiar." John said

"Barbequed billy-goats, I should think so. That beastly egg collector in the Hebrides was a Jemmerling."

"You can't blame Crayford for that."

"I wasn't going to, love. Suppose you started blaming me for Aunt Maria!"

It could just be a coincidence, of course. Anyhow, it reminded her that she owed Dot a letter.

A letter from his mother. Rather thicker than usual. Henry had to read through two pages of social triumphs and challenges before he reached what had doubtless been her real motive in writing this extra letter.

Letter from your Aunt Margaret ….. cousin George… visiting…..your uncle…. Riviera…. boat …since you are so close…. always been such good friends… lovely for you to meet again….. so lucky that you boys are so close in age…

His mother and her sister had always been competitive. His mother, he thought, had won not once but twice regarding marriage. His aunt always spoke as if her two daughters (as well as George) counted as a win – something his mother refused to acknowledge, speaking pityingly of the problems of bringing up daughters, just as his aunt commiserated with Henry on his only child status whenever she got the chance.

Henry and George had always had a friendly relationship, without ever being friends. Each understood that he was his own mother's chosen weapon in the competition for Uncle Jemmerling's money. (George's sisters would be completely useless for this purpose. Lucky them.) Long ago each of them had managed to convey to the other, through expression only – nothing was ever said - that he understood the situation. They were, perforce, adversaries. They respected each other's abilities, enjoyed each other's company and bore each other no animosity, but they could never be friends.

Naturally, both their mothers boasted of their devoted friendship.

The situation turned out to be far worse than Henry had thought. In fact, it was so serious that George's welcoming smile appeared to be completely genuine.

Perhaps alarmingly, neither of them had been invited to stay on the Great Auk. Henry thought George's choice of hotel might have been better. Less expensive at least.

"She's staying here. All things considered, I thought it better to keep as much of an eye as I could." George explained when they were alone.

"She?"

"Her name is Amaranth. They are already on Amaranth and George terms."

"How old?"

"I'm not sure she is young enough to be a danger in that particular respect. Mid- forties, perhaps. Still, you can't be sure."

"Has she been married before?"

"Not so far as I have been able to find out."

Henry frowned. That wasn't much of a relief. Suppose this Amaranth succeeded. His uncle was well into his sixties now. He might easily live another ten years - perhaps fifteen or twenty at the most. That was OK – Henry had always regarded time spent with Uncle Jemmerling as a long term investment, something to provide a useful extra income for his middle age. Supposing Uncle Jemmerling left his widow a life interest in his estate – a probable scenario. Suppose she lived until her seventies. Thirty years. He'd be nearly seventy himself at that rate.

George grinned at his cousin. "She might prefer you, of course."

"Have you been reading Jane Austen again?" Henry asked with mock severity.

"Not guilty."

And that, of course was where George went wrong. Not Jane Austen in particular, but he simply didn't read enough fiction. You didn't need to agree with the author's (or hero's, or heroine's ideas) but it was always a mistake to think that everyone thought like you. People were important. Success with people was the key to all success.

There was one huge flaw in the "Elliott manoeuvre*," as Henry was already thinking of it. If he did succeed in attracting this Amaranth to himself – and he saw no reason why he could not do so- it would be a near certainty that Uncle Jemmerling would leave his money to George. Like his sisters, Uncle Jemmerling could not bear losing and never forgot or forgave the victor. The Jemmerling collection was, he suspected, his uncle's chosen vehicle for immortality and he would never forgave anyone who prevent him from making an acquisition he had set his mind on. Henry had heard the story about the Great Northern Divers often enough. He suspected that the same might apply to this Amaranth.

His attitude to this Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke should therefore be cordial, but a long way short of the degree of cordiality that George was hoping for. George wasn't stupid, just on this occasion a little bit nearer drunk that he was quite aware of. (Investment in alcohol didn't always mean buying shares in a brewery.) Meanwhile it wouldn't hurt to find out what really mattered to Miss Sylvester-Quicke.

What really mattered to Miss Sylvester- Quicke was gossip. You could see it in her eyes. Hear it, too, when she spoke of others. She was one of those for whom knowledge to another's discredit was like a warm drink on a cold night.

"She is always asking the girls about the poor old gentleman in room 117." The concierge was always worth cultivating. George's French was most likely not up to the task. Henry's was being stretched a little and the concierge sometimes had to try phrasing things in different ways. Henry doubted that the gentleman in room 117 could really be anything like poor. "He is from the family of an English Duke and so therefore of course she is interested. She was watching him from the start. She was always in the corridors with eyes like… so." Henry thought the concierge was quite a good mimic. "She sees when the young lady visits. When I say lady, monsieur, I mean of a certain profession, you understand. I have seen a lot and I know people, but this one, she is the sort who is no trouble. All is well understood. She visits; he gives her presents. She always has a kind word, that one. Then one morning, she visits and the valet goes out as usual and the young lady rings the bell and rings the bell so hard and then comes out and tells one of my girls who is sweeping the passage and tells her that a doctor must be fetched immediately, because the old gentleman has had a heart attack." (Henry thought that was what une crise cardiaque probably was.) "This was the day your brother arrived."

"He isn't actually my brother – he's my cousin."

"Ah, you are a good family. It is good to see you so friendly together, you and your uncle and cousin."

"George told me our uncle was staying here a night or two – they were doing something to the boat." Henry waved his hand. "Madame, I hope you won't mind me asking – my mother is inclined to worry. You have some young men working here too. I hope there were no…" he paused, searching for the right words, he hoped "aucun incidents malheureux" conveyed the right sense of delicate vagueness. "If there is a problem – well, my mother would appreciate it if you spoke to me first. The good name of the family you know. Of course, he is a little older now."

The concierge nodded and smiled. "Oh there has been no trouble – in fact, you surprise me. I would have said…. But you know your family best of course."

The poor old gentleman in room 117 recovered somewhat and departed, escorted by a monocled nephew, complete with a gentleman's private gentleman, like something by PG Wodehouse.

Not quite like PG Wodehouse, perhaps. Henry saw the gentleman talking quietly on the terrace to Amaranth Sylvester-Quicke. He couldn't hear what was said, but the tone and expression were serious. There was something in Miss Sylvester-Quicke's stance that reminded him of a schoolgirl or young housemaid being reprimanded for carelessness. He was not entirely sure that it was his own actions, via the concierge, which triggered Miss Sylvester-Quicke's departure or whatever Lord Peter Wimsey had said to her.

Henry himself thought it politic to stay on a few days after George returned to London, his wife and his job. He was somewhat relieved when his uncle asked him to stay on the Great Auk for the remaining few days. He had after all, no pressing business to take him elsewhere at the moment.

This time, when his uncle, yet again, seethed aloud over the injustice of the Great Northern Diver incident, Henry listening more intently than usual, asked a few questions.

One would have to buy a decent camera of course, with one of those leads that enabled you to take a picture with yourself in it. He knew how to blow eggs already.

And an appropriate gun.

* See Persuasion for an explanation of the Elliott manoeuvre.