Death and the Visiting Fireman Read online

  ‘Now then, major,’ said Hamyadis without turning round. ‘We would like to hear about the coach.’

  The child humoured.

  And suddenly they were no longer a knot of people on a raft in the wide sea. With a hoot and yells down on them swooped motor coach after motor coach. The visiting firemen.

  ‘I guess I ought to get myself some of this fancy dress,’ said Schlemberger.

  ‘Waiting for you at the inn,’ Hamyadis said. ‘We’re nearly there. That’s why the coaches are passing us.’

  Schlemberger insisted on changing into costume before they ate the breakfast. But his concession to Olde England went no further. He drank tomato juice.

  When they had all taken their places, Joe Dagg said to Hamyadis:

  ‘Well, Air Marshal, think it’s time we saw something of this youngster who’s going to give such a shock to the highwayman?’

  ‘Certainly, if you like. He’s a boy you can rely on to do the right thing at the right time. And that’s something I’m prepared to pay for,’ said Hamyadis.

  Dagg got up and left the room.

  ‘Highwayman,’ said Schlemberger.

  Not a question. Not a statement. Scarcely a feeler. A doubt.

  ‘Highwaymen have always been thought of as pretty dangerous fellows,’ said the major.

  Quick to exploit an opening. The alert soldier.

  ‘They were? That is – are?’ said Schlemberger.

  ‘You probably find it difficult to believe that such a small country as this could have lonely roads,’ said the major. ‘But let me assure you you’ll see some pretty lonely places between here and London. Places where anything might happen. Experentia docet.’

  ‘Experience teaches?’ said Schlemberger. ‘Used to be the motto of my old High School. Pretty sound motto at that.’

  A fox in city streets, still cunning, still wary.

  ‘Miss Miller,’ said the major. ‘You’ve done a good deal of travelling about in the course of your profession. Did you ever encounter a highwayman?’

  ‘A highwayman? As a matter of fact I never did. But then I always say I’m a lucky person.’

  An understanding established. An opening quickly and easily taken up.

  ‘Guess I ought to have brought a gun,’ said Schlemberger. A plea. A request, with timidity, for the comfort of laughter.

  ‘Do you carry a gun?’ asked Kristen Kett.

  The child. The illicit toffee.

  ‘George carries one too,’ she added. ‘Don’t you, Georgie? He keeps it under his pillow. It’s got one of those silencers.’

  A boast.

  ‘You’re a silly little fool,’ said Hamyadis.

  An admission.

  From the others a rustle of protest.

  Then an interruption. Eagerly accepted relief.

  Joe Dagg came back into the room his hand resting on the shoulder of a boy of about eight.

  ‘Here he is, Air Marshal,’ Joe said. ‘My Peter. One young lad ready and willing to deal with any highwaymen encountered.’

  ‘This is a bit of a surprise I’ve been keeping for you,’ said Hamyadis. ‘I thought it might amuse your fellow delegates, Mr Schlemberger, if we staged a little hold-up. We’re going to have a highwayman ride out of a clump of trees somewhere on the route tomorrow and hold up the coach. He’ll take money from the men and a kiss from the ladies, and then as he escapes this youngster will shoot him down.’

  ‘Guess that’ll be very amusing,’ said Schlemberger.

  He grinned. A touch of ruefulness.

  A warmth. Something shared.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kristen Kett, ‘and Richie is going to be the highwayman. He rides very well. Don’t you Richie? Much better than old Charles.’

  A caress. In public. And responded to.

  ‘We haven’t decided who the highwayman will be yet,’ Hamyadis went on as if she had not spoken. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  He got up from the table with his meal unfinished.

  ‘I don’t think we had better delay the start of the coach too long,’ said Fremitt. ‘No doubt there is a programme to be adhered to.’

  The others finished their food quickly. Richard Wemyss sat over a last cup of coffee for three minutes unconvincingly.

  ‘Pardon me,’ said Schlemberger as they stood beside the coach waiting to mount, ‘could I try the effect of travelling inside?’

  He looked down at his costume.

  ‘I shall give myself the pleasure of accompanying you,’ said Fremitt. ‘Then we can talk shop without inflicting ourselves on the others.’

  The rest of the party climbed on to the roof seats, Kristen preening. Wemyss quick to sit beside her, to sit close. Peter Dagg scrambled up and sat between his father and Hamyadis. Another horn call. Conference delegates rushing from the breakfast marquees. Cheers, waves, shouts. The clop of the horses’ hooves and the hot smell of the road.

  They lunched on the way. Hamyadis had planned a sightseeing tour of Winchester for the delegates and wanted them to arrive in the early afternoon. Without relief horses their pace was necessarily slow.

  But there were no gritty sandwiches, no tepid drinks tasting of the Thermos.

  They sat in their places on the coach, in the shade of a huge oak, its leaves paper thin from the long summer. Out of two large hampers Hamyadis produced a full-scale cold meal. Lobster, duck, champagne.

  Gleaming plates, sparkling glasses.

  The warmth of a summer sun from a cloudless sky. Idle conversation.

  ‘I guess this is more the way I kind of thought of England,’ said Schlemberger.

  Hamyadis refilled his glass.

  ‘You must remember,’ Smithers said, ‘all this is only made possible because we are a big enough industrial nation to warrant a visit from your conference.’

  ‘Remember it, but try to forget it,’ said Daisy, finishing her champagne.

  Smithers leaned towards her and said quietly:

  ‘You’ve managed to forget your premonition of this morning I hope?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I haven’t. Something like that only happens to me once in twenty years, and I can’t forget it. But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I don’t intend to spoil the party.’

  ‘You have had similar feelings before, then?’ Smithers asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘And they did bring trouble. The last time I had a turn like this morning was over my husband.’

  ‘I certainly respect such intimations,’ Smithers said. ‘We must hope though that this once you’re mistaken.’

  ‘I’m sure I hope so,’ she answered.

  ‘Come,’ said the major, ‘you’re looking too thoughtful for a fine day like this. Let me fill your glass.’

  ‘I won’t have any more wine, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d disgrace us all by falling asleep.’

  ‘Mr Hamyadis,’ the major called up to the box, ‘does the commissariat run to pani?’

  Smithers noticed his hands grasping the cloth of his coat as if ready to rip two holes in it.

  ‘Pani,’ said Daisy Miller as she took the iced water Hamyadis had passed down. ‘You can’t expect us to understand you if you don’t cure yourself of all this Latin, major.’

  ‘Hindustani this time, I’m afraid,’ the major said. ‘You can’t stop an old dog’s tricks, you know.’

  A slow relaxation.

  ‘Hindustani,’ said Daisy, ‘isn’t that extraordinary.’

  Pleased by a simple fact. But at the back of the eyes a reservation.

  A start again. The uneventful road.

  Near the outskirts of Winchester Joe Dagg turned round in his seat and said:

  ‘Like to take the ribbons, colonel?’

  ‘Very decent of you,’ said the major.

  He stood up promptly. A rare chance. A trace of hastiness.

  ‘Here, Pete, hold these a minute while we change places,’ said Joe Dagg thrusting the reins into his son’s hands.

  The boy said nothing, but g
athered the reins for his thirty seconds’ driving with minute care. He sat crouching forward looking at the horses, absorbed in the concentration of imitation. Joe Dagg swung backwards off the box and to the roof of the coach itself. The major swung forward the same way though less adroitly. He took the reins from Peter and settled himself in the driving seat.

  With deliberation, slowly as if giving a demonstration. Minor adjustments occupied him.

  ‘You’ll see a bit of driving now,’ Joe Dagg said. ‘The major’s a rare one with the ribbons. He’ll give you the trimmings.’

  He stood up again and looked back over his shoulder at the major.

  ‘All set, colonel?’

  ‘Set fair,’ said the major.

  The pace quickened a little. They reached the outskirts of the city. Again they were overtaken by the cavalcade of motor coaches, hats waving from them at every angle. Frenzied centipedes. People on the pavements cheered as they went by. Richard Wemyss played to them.

  Joe Dagg stood up again and turned round.

  ‘You remember the turn into the pub, colonel?’ he said.

  A hint of solicitude. The mother bird watching the nearly grown fledgling outfly her.

  ‘Sharp as can be,’ said the major over his shoulder. ‘I had a good look at it the other day. I’ll take her right in.’

  ‘You mind my paint then, colonel,’ said Joe.

  The major appeared not to hear, except that the pace quickened a little.

  ‘That’s the pub on the corner,’ Joe said, still standing and facing the way they were going.

  Hamyadis turned round.

  ‘It’s one of the really old coaching inns,’ he said. ‘It’s got everything. A courtyard in the middle, old stables. The lot.’

  As they got close to the building they could see the archway entrance was right on the street. A sharp turn would be needed to get the horses and the coach in.

  The major gave a little shout. The pace quickened once again.

  ‘Steady does it, colonel,’ said Joe Dagg quietly.

  ‘Now,’ shouted the major.

  There was a squeal of iron rims scraping and protesting on the road surface. The coach swayed.

  The passengers clutched at the rails. Schlemberger poked his head out of the window, and whipped it back in again.

  The leading horses entered the archway.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ Joe Dagg shouted. With all the force of his lungs.

  The coach lurched into the direction of the turn. The major flung his whole weight the other way to balance it.

  A splintering, slow and deliberate.

  The vehicle pitched forward and with a scraping crash hit the wall of the archway.

  Three

  The horses gave a high-pitched neigh and kicked their forelegs in a flurry of hooves and flashing horsehoes.

  ‘The stupid fool,’ shouted Hamyadis.

  He jerked to his feet crouching beneath the low roof of the archway. Then with a bound forward like a racing swimmer he leapt to the ground beside the horses. Their wild legs all around his head.

  ‘Come down, you damn’ brutes.’

  Without hesitation he stepped forward and caught hold of the rein linking the two leaders. He leant his full weight on it.

  The plunging horses lowered their heads.

  ‘Be still, damn and blast you,’ said Hamyadis.

  A curse.

  And the horses obeyed.

  No one was hurt. Even the horses in spite of the noise they had made and the whirl of flying hooves did themselves no harm. Joe Dagg inspected the coach and said the damage could be repaired by the morning.

  ‘You want to keep an eye on that near-side leader, Joe,’ said the major. ‘She’s not reliable.’

  ‘I’ll keep a tight hand on her, captain,’ said Joe.

  All the party heard the rank given. A boy sent to the bottom of the class.

  ‘It isn’t right,’ said Kristen Kett. ‘I don’t feel very well.’ But beneath her make-up her cheeks looked pale. ‘Richie,’ she said, ‘could you take me in?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Richard Wemyss.

  He flicked angrily at the coating of distemper from the wall that was smeared across one side of his coat. Taking Kristen’s arm he walked her solicitously into the inn.

  ‘Now I really begin to get some idea of what the old coaching days were like,’ said Smithers.

  ‘I always suspected I wouldn’t have altogether liked them,’ Fremitt said.’ There’s not only these little accidents, but exposure to the weather. A journey in those days must have meant taking a terrible risk.’

  ‘Dad,’ Peter Dagg said, ‘you did tell the major not to go so fast, didn’t you?’

  No one answered him. But Hamyadis said:

  ‘Before dinner this evening I would be glad if you could all spare me twenty minutes or so. I want to get the details of this hold-up tomorrow fixed. Shall we say seven forty-five? By the coach?’

  An impersonal announcement. With an addition: in direct speech.

  ‘Major, you’d better be there ten minutes early.’

  As the blue-and-gold-faced clock above the inn stables struck a quarter to eight Smithers, still in coaching costume, came to the door leading to the courtyard. He flicked at chalk-dust as on a green-black academic gown. No boys rose to their feet.

  Standing on the other side of the cobbled courtyard near the coach were Hamyadis and the major. Fremitt joined Smithers from a corridor where he had been looking intently at a flyblown calendar two years out of date.

  He smiled shyly.

  ‘You’re very punctual,’ he said. ‘I make it exactly seven forty-five.’

  He pulled a half-hunter from his costume waistcoat.

  ‘I’m used to appearing exactly on time,’ Smithers said. ‘One minute early and you catch your form letting off high spirits, and one minute late and they’ve gone too far.’

  ‘And I generally find I arrive for an appointment two minutes early.’

  A moment of doubt. The quick smile.

  ‘Or actually two and a half. It seems rather exact, I suppose.’

  Fremitt glanced at his hands. Self-examination.

  ‘It’s all a question of habit,’ said Smithers. ‘Yours is no more exact than mine.’

  The necessary answer.

  Fremitt looked at him sharply. An assessment.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘though your habit seems contrived not to lead you into embarrassing circumstances.’

  A pause. In the eager eyes a moment of questioning, and the realization that it was too late.

  ‘A thing my habit has just done for me,’ Fremitt said, weighing the words.

  Smithers turned and looked at the major and Hamyadis.

  ‘I’m afraid it could only be described as a dressing-down,’ said Fremitt. ‘Or at least so it appeared to me.’

  ‘Unpleasant,’ Smithers said. ‘But it’s our agreed time. Shall we join them?’

  ‘I tell you frankly,’ said Fremitt. ‘I do so with reluctance. Or at best some hesitation.’

  ‘Your position is stronger than mine,’ Smithers said as they crossed the yard. ‘You are on duty: I came here for pleasure.’

  Fremitt appeared to stand straighter.

  Through the archway from the street Schlemberger walked in talking to Joe Dagg. Peter skipped along half sideways beside them waiting to thrust a twig into the crackle of the conversation.

  ‘Is that so?’ Schlemberger was saying. ‘Why, in the States divorce is looked upon as an essential prerequisite of the pursuit of happiness.’

  ‘I’m not criticizing it, wing commander,’ Dagg said. ‘You asked and I told you.’

  A paragraph completed.

  ‘Dad,’ said Peter, the twig in at last, ‘what’s an ex?’

  ‘An ex, boy? What have you got into that head of yours now?’

  ‘I guess Junior there’s referring to a recent remark of mine,’ said Schlemberger.

  A question answered, a point cleared up.r />
  ‘Now then, lad,’ said Joe Dagg.

  ‘But, Dad, what is an ex?’

  ‘Back in the States we believe in answering that sort of question entirely frankly,’ said Schlemberger.

  ‘Are you going to tell me then, sir?’ asked Peter.

  ‘You tell him,’ said his father.

  ‘Well,’ said Schlemberger.

  A drawn-out syllable. A hesitation. Choosing of words.

  ‘Guess you could put it that I’ve had two wives, and now all I’ve got is two heavy bills for alimony.’

  ‘Dad never had any wives,’ said Peter.

  ‘Now then, that’s something we don’t talk about,’ said Joe.

  A boulder flung into a breach as turbid, mud-yellow water seethes through. Then something better.

  ‘All ready and correct, Admiral,’ Joe said, stepping smartly up to Hamyadis.

  From the inn door came Kristen Kett, leaning heavily on the arm of Richard Wemyss. From the archway, Daisy Miller.

  ‘I don’t know what time it is,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to apologize for being late. It’s generally safest. I went down the road to put a letter in the box and got talking to the postman who was just collecting the mail. Such a chatty old dear.’

  ‘Georgie,’ said Kristen, leaving Richard’s arm, ‘you won’t want your little girl, will you? She knows all about this.’

  Perhaps a test.

  ‘You’ll stay,’ said Hamyadis.

  ‘But Georgie … Georgie, I don’t feel very well.’

  No answer.

  Kristen walked away. But not too far. Wemyss walked after her, but not too fast.

  ‘Well, let’s start,’ said Hamyadis. ‘Would you be so good as to take your places on the coach? I’ve had it propped up so there’ll be no danger as a result of that piece of abominable carelessness this afternoon.’

  For a little nobody moved.

  The insult applied to them all.

  Then the major said to Daisy:

  ‘Will you allow me to hand you up?’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure, major,’ she said. ‘Rehearsals are like cold swims: all right once you’ve begun.’

  Everybody moved towards the coach.

  ‘Not that I’ve ever been so silly as to have a cold swim,’ said Daisy.

  With some ceremony, perhaps prolonged deliberately, they took their seats, only Hamyadis and Richard Wemyss remaining below.