A Family Affair Page 11

  ‘It’s him, all right!’ The butler – most confoundingly – had turned and pitched this information, with every appearance of excitement, into the recesses of the hall. ‘You come in,’ he said, turning back to Bobby. ‘And I ’ope you’ll permit me to shake you by the ’and.’

  That Sir Thomas’ butler should be so emotionally disturbed as to have lost command of his aspirates struck Bobby as something portentous in itself. But he had no leisure to reflect on it, since he now found himself in the presence of Sir Thomas. The squire of Monks Amble did have an enormous moustache. But if this was alarming, his posture was reassuring. He was in the act of replacing a shotgun in a rack on the wall. Having accomplished this, he turned round, snatched the Illustrated London News from his henchman, gave it a brief confirmatory glance, and advanced upon Bobby with the largest cordiality.

  ‘Absolutely delighted,’ Sir Thomas Carrington said. ‘Deuced good of you to call. Compare notes, eh? Changed times, of course. Plenty to talk about. Take off your coat. Billington – brandy and cigars.’

  Billington vanished. Bobby’s wits were still not working quite properly.

  ‘It’s awfully kind of you, sir,’ he said. ‘Decent of you to see me, I mean. I don’t think you’ve actually met my father. He’s Sir John Appleby.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Plain K, eh? Not in the baronetage. Don’t know him from Adam, I’m afraid. But come into my den, my dear boy. I’ve one or two things that ought to interest you.’

  Bobby found himself led into a small apartment of informal character. It appeared to have been excavated beneath rather an imposing staircase. And its most prominent feature revealed the truth at once. Perched alone on a peg above the chimney piece was a faded blue velvet cap with a silver tassel. The walls, too, told their story. They were hung with group photographs of innumerable Rugger Fifteens of the past. It was a reasonable conjecture that Sir Thomas Carrington figured in several of them.

  ‘A capital game,’ Sir Thomas was saying. ‘Billington and I don’t go out much, you know. Haven’t actually been to Twickenham these half dozen years, I’d say. But, of course, we have it on the box.’ Sir Thomas gestured towards a television set in a corner of the room. ‘And we don’t forget that drop goal of yours, Appleby. We often talk about it. Magnificent effort. In the last thirty seconds, eh? And from pretty well on the touchline, and back on the twenty-five. Saved the match. I can tell you something rather similar about the game in twenty-seven. But my own Varsity Match was back in twenty-two. Tell you about it after lunch.’

  ‘I’ll be awfully interested to hear about it,’ Bobby said mendaciously. It had always seemed to him that all Rugger toughs in photographs were virtually indistinguishable one from another, and he didn’t see how he himself could conceivably be an exception. Yet Billington had recognized him from a mere memory of just such a photograph in an illustrated paper. Billington as a butler to an obscure country gentleman had quite missed his vocation. He ought to be holding down a key job at Scotland Yard.

  ‘And about Cuppers in twenty-one,’ Sir Thomas continued happily. ‘I can tell you a lot about that. Though I say it myself, the House fielded a damned good side. A difficult thing to do, with the college cluttered up with all those useless wet-bobs from Eton.’

  ‘I suppose it must have been.’ Bobby, although the simplicity of his own earlier college years had inured him to conversation on athletic topics, found himself failing to relish the prospect of sustained tête-à-tête with Sir Thomas. Nor could he at all see how he was going to work round to the pilfered painting. It would be easier if George Stubbs had painted Rugger matches, like Mr Lawrence Toynbee. Unfortunately in Stubbs’ time Rugby football hadn’t been invented, and football of any sort was thought of as a particularly reprehensible form of plebeian brawling. Bobby had a dim notion that Stubbs had once or twice delineated a cricket match. But there was no sign that Sir Thomas Carrington – or Billington, for that matter – took the slightest interest in cricket.

  ‘I want to talk to you seriously about the handling of the scrum.’ Sir Thomas said this as, without consultation, he poured out two alarming measures of brandy. ‘Mind you, I don’t deny that the science of the game has progressed in a good many ways since my time. But we did know how to wheel. You don’t see a modern scrum wheeling the way we did. Cigar? Come to think of it, a pipe’s better for the wind.’

  ‘I think I’ll just smoke my pipe a little later,’ Bobby said modestly. Not to seem disdainful of Sir Thomas’ hospitality, he took a sip of the brandy. The result was unexpected and extremely curious. So minute an ingestion of alcohol couldn’t conceivably have had any real effect. Yet its mere sting on his palate seemed to snap open a shutter in his mind. ‘I’m tremendously interested,’ he said, ‘in what you say about the scrum. You see, I’ve sometimes thought about what a scrum-half should know. It’s a matter of mechanics, in a way. I mean, there you have eight chaps, all locked together with their shoulders down, and with ever so complex a play of forces going on.’

  ‘Perfectly true.’ Sir Thomas nodded sagely – an old Blue listening to a young one.

  ‘A scrum-half is even an artist in his way. Like Michelangelo, or somebody like that. Watching all those muscles at work, and calculating just what effect they’re going to produce. So he ought really to have studied anatomy. Of course, some have. Have you noticed, sir, that a good many of the greatest scrum-halves of modern times have been medical students?’

  ‘I don’t know that I have.’ Sir Thomas was extremely impressed. ‘I must have Billington look it up. Most interesting. Anatomy – upon my soul!’

  ‘Take the horse. Everybody studies the anatomy of the horse.’

  ‘Perfectly true, Appleby. We had lectures on it at my private school. Invaluable thing. Remember it all very well. Much better than their Latin and so forth.’

  ‘It’s been so for a long time. For two hundred years, I suppose, every gentleman’s library has included Stubbs’ book.’

  ‘What’s that? Stubbs, did you say?’ There was a promising alertness in Sir Thomas’ voice.

  ‘Of course, he became a painter mainly. But he published his Anatomy of the Horse in 1766.’ Bobby paused impressively, justly conscious of having done his homework. ‘A most exhaustive study of equine structure. And the basis, really, of a lot of his artistic work. So it seems to me that if scrum-halves–’ Bobby managed to pause invitingly – and to his joy Sir Thomas uttered.

  ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Got the book myself – goes without saying. But – do you know? – I could tell you a devilish odd thing about Stubbs.’

  ‘I’d be most awfully interested to hear it.’

  But, at this moment, the door of Sir Thomas’ den opened, to reveal Billington in a formal posture.

  ‘Luncheon is served,’ Billington said.

  11

  The interruption might well have been fatal. For one thing, Bobby felt he ought to make noises deprecating the notion of his staying to lunch at all. For another – and when this had been briskly brushed aside – it became evident that Billington was to remain in attendance throughout the meal. It seemed possible that this might exercise an inhibiting effect on the flow of his employer’s reminiscences. But nothing of the sort occurred. For Billington was very much a confidential retainer. As well as rivalling Sir Thomas as a connoisseur of Rugby football, it soon appeared that he was something of an oracle on Carrington family history as well.

  ‘Fact is that I possessed a Stubbs,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘Ought to possess it still. But there was this damned joke. That right, Billington?’

  ‘Well, Sir Thomas, we can’t be all that clear. About the picture ever having been genuine for a start, that is. We have to recall your late mother’s temperament, in a manner of speaking. And very rum it was, sir, to speak with all respect.’

  ‘Perfectly true.’ Sir Thomas paused to consume several spoonfuls of soup – a feat which the character of his moustache rendered one of considerable virtuosity. ‘My mothe
r had a very good seat, mark you, and could take her fences with the best of them. But she was certainly rum. Billington – that’s a very good word for her. Rum.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Finished in Paris, you know, Appleby. Regular thing. None of those damned Swiss places in her time. But she broke out. With the drawing master, it seems. And the interest never left her. Always dabbling with her paintbox. Jokes, too. Painted something deuced indecent once – a couple of heathen goddesses quite starkers – and passed it off as by some desperate old Italian.

  ‘But nudes,’ Bobby said, ‘aren’t really indecent, are they?’

  ‘My dear boy, they are when cooked up by a Victorian baronet’s lady. That right, Billington?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘So in the end I couldn’t be quite certain about this Stubbs. It was my mother who came on it, you see, poking around in the stables.’

  ‘The stables?’

  ‘Right place for a painting of two uncommonly fine Arabs, I’d say. Take the kitchen at Christ Church. Had a splendid painting of a butcher’s shop in my day, by some top-ranking painter of the Resurgence.’

  ‘The Renaissance,’ Bobby said automatically – for he had lately been tending to pick up some of his tutor’s habits.

  ‘That’s right. And an inspiration to the college chef, if you ask me. Not there now, I’m told. Shoved into some picture gallery. Billington, what was I talking about?’

  ‘The unfortunate matter of the George Stubbs, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘So I was. Perhaps we ought to get back to Rugger. Interest you a good deal more – eh, Appleby?’

  ‘I’d like to hear about the end of Stubbs first, sir.’

  ‘Not much to tell. We all liked this picture my mother had found – or said she had found.’

  ‘You were doubtful about that at the time?’

  ‘Lord, no. She was an old woman then, and the notion of one of her jokes never entered our heads.’

  ‘Did your mother say it was by Stubbs?’

  ‘I really don’t know, my boy. She may have done. Name wouldn’t have conveyed much to us, except perhaps as that of the chap who wrote the book.’

  ‘The Anatomy of the Horse? Yes, of course. But what happened then?’

  ‘Nothing at all, until my father died – which was years after the death of my mother, and of my poor wife, too, for that matter. My father lived to a tremendous old age. Billington, I’m right there – eh?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Thomas. The late Sir Thomas was ninety-six at the time of his regretted decease.’

  ‘Billington knows,’ Sir Thomas said with approval. ‘Well, when my father died, we had to have fellows in to value things. Probate, you know. Damned iniquitous death duties. One of them was a picture-wallah. Spotted the Stubbs, and congratulated me on it. Seemed surprised I didn’t know the thing meant money.’

  ‘I see. So this chap concluded that it was a Stubbs, and valued it accordingly?’

  ‘Just that. Mind you, it seemed a snap job. Didn’t scratch at the thing, or anything of that kind. Just took a quick look at it and said “Nice little Stubbs”.’

  ‘But how did you come to lose it, Sir Thomas? Did this man you’re telling me about have anything more to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Billington – that correct?’

  ‘Not exactly, Sir Thomas. The gentleman did suggest that he take away the painting and have it cleaned for you.’

  ‘To be sure, so he did. Reasonable thing, I suppose. Splendid brutes: crests thin, fetlock joints large, shoulders lying well on the chest. Show up better if one got off the dirt.’

  ‘But you didn’t let him have it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t – although I can’t remember why. But yes I can. Billington advised against it. That right, Billington?’

  ‘That is correct, Sir Thomas. If the picture was worth a mint of money, then caution was indicated.’

  ‘Just so. Well, the fellow went away. But he must have told his discovery to some of the top people in his own line. And then they played this joke on me. Queer business. None of us has ever got to the bottom of it – not even Billington. Damned embarrassing, just at the time. Rather forgotten the details now. But Billington knows.’

  ‘I am moderately informed, Sir Thomas.’ Billington, who had been in the act of replenishing his employer’s glass with brandy (which appeared to be drunk as a matter of course throughout this meal), turned impressively towards Bobby. ‘We had a communication, sir, from the President of the Royal Academy–’

  ‘Only we hadn’t.’ Sir Thomas’ memory seemed to have cleared. ‘Because it wasn’t from him at all.’

  ‘I shall come to that, sir.’ Billington was reproachful. ‘The letter was about a very ’igh-class show to be held at Burlington ’ouse in London.’ Billington paused, as if obscurely aware of having mislaid something. ‘Very high-class indeed,’ he said, ‘as all such at Burlington House are.’

  ‘So I packed the thing up,’ Sir Thomas said, ‘and sent it off. Not actually to Burlington House, but to some place where the letter said they were collecting everything.’

  ‘I see,’ Bobby said.

  ‘So there you are.’ Sir Thomas paused. ‘And that brings us to the Varsity Match.’

  ‘To the Varsity Match!’ Bobby felt dismay. ‘But won’t you first–’

  ‘The last that Billington and I went up for. And being in town, I thought we’d drop in on these Royal Academy fellows and have a word about the picture. Billington, carry on.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Thomas. A very courteous secretary, there was. More of a gentleman, in a manner of speaking, than a person moving in hartistic circles. ’e said the Stubbs ’ad never been ’eard of.’ The excitement of his narrative was gaining on Billington. ‘Well, Sir Thomas wasn’t pleased, and rightly so. ’e spoke his mind.’

  ‘So I did.’ Sir Thomas appeared delighted by this commendation. ‘But fellow was very civil, as Billington says. Turned the place upside down, and there the damned picture was, after all. Had arrived that morning. Eh, Billington?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Thomas – and with a letter purporting to be from yourself, offering your Stubbs for the exhibition in what might be called an unsolicited way. And at that moment, in comes the President himself. Of the Royal Academy, that’s to say. Affable as you please, and with an ’andle to his name.’

  ‘Picked up a K, I suppose, for having painted Cabinet ministers.’ Sir Thomas chuckled indulgently. ‘Nice enough chap.’

  ‘Tactful, I thought ’e was. Clearly some misunderstanding, ’e said, but they’d be delighted to ’ang the Stubbs.’

  ‘Did the President call it a Stubbs?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘That, now, I wouldn’t swear to. But Sir Thomas’ picture would be gratefully accepted, and fortunately there was a place for it in the Gents.’

  ‘The Gents?’ Bobby, not unnaturally, was surprised.

  ‘There was to be a small overflow in the Gents.’ Billington paused, as if vaguely aware of something wrong with this expression. ‘It’s a place very much frequented during these shows, it seems. On account of art lovers being mostly elderly.’

  ‘But that was why there was the outrage.’ At this point, Sir Thomas appeared to be surprisingly on the spot. ‘If it had been in one of the main galleries, you know, this demonstrating scoundrel, who was after Votes for Women–’

  ‘Banning the Bomb,’ Billington said.

  ‘Something of that kind. He’d have been nabbed before he slashed the thing. As it was, the whole affair was deuced awkward. For the Stubbs turned out to have been painted on top of something else. It was made to appear that I’d offered this show a damned fake.’

  ‘As was natural and proper,’ Billington said, ‘Sir Thomas ’e raised ’ell. Scotland Yard, and all that.’

  ‘But then we thought better of it. Billington’s idea, really. He saw we were going to appear damned fools. Better to call off the coppers, and let be. Well, that’s the story.’


  Luncheon with Sir Thomas Carrington had come virtually to its end. Bobby Appleby glanced dubiously at something like two inches of brandy still in the glass before him. He had to keep a clear head to sort all this out. He also had to drive a car. But Billington had turned aside to prepare coffee, and for a moment Sir Thomas was obscurely occupied with his moustache. In the middle of the table was a small bowl of anemones. Bobby deftly tipped his brandy into it, and then raised his glass with great ostentation to his lips. Sir Thomas, glancing up, noted with approval a young man capable of gulping spirits a gill at a time.

  ‘Another drop of brandy?’ Sir Thomas said.

  ‘No, thank you very much – but I’ve enjoyed it enormously.’

  ‘Another stiff tot, dear boy, might go very well with that long chat we’re going to have about the scrum.’

  ‘Or Benedictine,’ Billington suggested hospitably. ‘Or we have a very nice Green Chartreuse.’

  ‘I think I’d rather not.’ Bobby spoke quite nervously. It seemed to him that something was happening to the anemones. He could have sworn that they were changing colour and stirring drunkenly. ‘It looks – doesn’t it? – as if there’s no telling whether there was ever a real Stubbs or not.’

  ‘One is aware of alternative hypotheses, sir.’ Billington articulated these words with prudent precision. ‘Either the late Sir Thomas’ lady was having a bit of a joke in the first place, or there was a proper Stubbs and it vanished between this and Burlington’ – Billington paused impressively – ‘House.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Sir Thomas said, and his glance wandered across the table. ‘Nice flowers these, eh? Striking colours.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Bobby said, his nervousness increasing. He realized that, from Sir Thomas Carrington’s point of view, the topic of the Stubbs had exhausted itself. And clearly a great deal of talk about Rugger was going to follow. Having been given a very decent lunch in the expectation of this, he couldn’t with any honesty now think to cut and run for it. And Rugger, after all, still interested him quite a lot. But it did seem important to make at least one further bid for any remaining facts about the picture business that might be lurking either in Sir Thomas’ mind or in Billington’s. Bobby tried to think of the sort of questions his father would ask. Perhaps there was some single and vital question that hadn’t occurred to him. It would be very annoying to return to Dream and almost immediately have his father saying incredulously, ‘You mean to say you didn’t ask that?’ Perhaps he had been rash to feed all that brandy to the anemones. Perhaps one additional swig at it would have produced inspiration. ‘About the fellow who came to value your pictures,’ he heard himself say. ‘He wanted to take away the Stubbs – if it was a Stubbs – and have it cleaned for you. Do you remember anything else about him?’