The Seven Dials mystery
"Bundle has suggested that I should go to Chimneys with her for a bit."
"Excellent," said Jimmy approvingly. "Nothing could be better. I'd like
an eye kept on Bundle anyway. You never know what mad thing she won't
be up to next. She's so frightfully unexpected. And the worst of it is,
she's so astonishingly successful. I tell you, keeping Bundle out of
mischief is a whole-time job."
"Bill ought to look after her," suggested Loraine.
"Bill's pretty busy elsewhere."
"Don't you believe it," said Loraine.
"What? Not the Countess? But the lad's potty about her."
Loraine continued to shake her head.
"There's something there I don't quite understand. But it's not the
Countess with Bill--it's Bundle. Why, this morning Bill was talking to
me when Mr. Lomax came out and sat down by Bundle. He took her hand or
something, and Bill was off like--like a rocket."
"What a curious taste some people have," observed Mr. Thesiger. "Fancy
anyone who was talking to you wanting to do anything else. But you
surprise me very much, Loraine. I thought our simple Bill was enmeshed
in the toils of the beautiful foreign adventuress. Bundle thinks so, I
know."
"Bundle may," said Loraine, "but I tell you, Jimmy, it isn't so."
"Then what's the big idea?"
"Don't you think it possible that Bill is doing a bit of sleuthing on
his own?"
"Bill? He hasn't got the brains."
"I'm not so sure. When a simple, muscular person like Bill does set out
to be subtle, no one ever gives him credit for it."
"And in consequence he can put in some good work. Yes, there's
something in that. But all the same I'd never have thought it of Bill.
He's doing the Countess's little woolly lamb to perfection. I think
you're wrong, you know, Loraine. The Countess is an extraordinarily
beautiful woman--not my type, of course," put in Mr. Thesiger
hastily--"and old Bill has always had a heart like an hotel."
Loraine shook her head, unconvinced.
"Well," said Jimmy, "have it your own way. We seem to have more or less
settled things. You go back with Bundle to Chimneys, and for Heavens'
sake keep her from poking about in that Seven Dials place again.
Heavens knows what will happen if she does."
Loraine nodded.
"And now," said Jimmy, "I think a few words with Lady Coote would be
advisable."
Lady Coote was sitting on a garden seat doing wool-work. The subject
was a disconsolate and somewhat misshapen young woman weeping over an
urn.
Lady Coote made room for Jimmy by her side, and he promptly, being a
tactful young man, admired her work.
"Do you like it?" said Lady Coote, pleased. "It was begun by my Aunt
Selina the week before she died. Cancer of the liver, poor thing."
"How beastly," said Jimmy.
"And how is the arm?"
"Oh, it's feeling quite all right. Bit of a nuisance and all that, you
know."
"You'll have to be careful," said Lady Coote in a warning voice. "I've
known blood-poisoning set in--and in that case you might lose your arm
altogether."
"Oh! I say, I hope not."
"I'm only warning you," said Lady Coote.
"Where are you hanging out now?" inquired Mr. Thesiger. "Town--or
where?"
Considering that he knew the answer to his query perfectly well, he put
the question with a praiseworthy amount of ingenuousness.
Lady Coote sighed heavily.
"Sir Oswald has taken the Duke of Alton's place. Letherbury. You know
it, perhaps?"
"Oh, rather. Topping place, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Lady Coote. "It's a very large place, and
gloomy, you know. Rows of picture galleries with such forbidding
looking people. What they call Old Masters are very depressing, I
think. You should have seen a little house we had in Yorkshire, Mr.
Thesiger. When Sir Oswald was plain Mr. Coote. Such a nice lounge hall
and a cheerful drawing-room with an ingle-nook--a white striped paper
with a frieze of wisteria I chose for it, I remember. Satin stripe, you
know, not moiré. Much better taste, I always think. The dining-room
faced northeast, so we didn't get much sun in it, but with a good
bright scarlet paper and a set of those comic hunting prints--why, it
was as cheerful as Christmas."
In the excitement of these reminiscences, Lady Coote dropped several
little balls of wool, which Jimmy dutifully retrieved.
"Thank you, my dear," said Lady Coote. "Now, what was I saying?
Oh!--about houses--yes, I do like a cheerful house. And choosing things
for it gives you an interest."
"I suppose Sir Oswald will be buying a place of his own one of these
days," suggested Jimmy. "And then you can have it just as you like."
Lady Coote shook her head sadly.
"Sir Oswald talks of a firm doing it--and you know what that means."
"Oh! But they'd consult you!"
"It would be one of those grand places--all for the antique. They'd
look down on the things I call comfortable and homey. Not but that Sir
Oswald wasn't very comfortable and satisfied in his home always, and I
daresay his tastes are just the same underneath. But nothing will suit
him now but the best! He's got on wonderfully, and naturally he wants
something to show for it, but many's the time I wonder where it will
end."
Jimmy looked sympathetic.
"It's like a runaway horse," said Lady Coote. "Got the bit between its
teeth and away it goes. It's the same with Sir Oswald. He's got on, and
he's got on, till he can't stop getting on. He's one of the richest men
in England now--but does that satisfy him? No, he wants still more.
He wants to be--I don't know what he wants to be! I can tell you, it
frightens me sometimes!"
"Like the Persian Johnny," said Jimmy, "who went about wailing for
fresh worlds to conquer."
Lady Coote nodded acquiescence without much knowing what Jimmy was
talking about.
"What I wonder is--will his stomach stand it?" she went on tearfully.
"To have him an invalid--with his ideas--oh, it won't bear thinking of."
"He looks very hearty," said Jimmy, consolingly.
"He's got something on his mind," said Lady Coote. "Worried, that's
what he is. _I_ know."
"What's he worried about?"
"I don't know. Perhaps something at the works. It's a great comfort
for him having Mr. Bateman. Such an earnest young man--and so
conscientious."
"Marvellously conscientious," agreed Jimmy.
"Oswald thinks a lot of Mr. Bateman's judgment. He says that Mr.
Bateman is always right."
"That was one of his worst characteristics years ago," said Jimmy
feelingly.
Lady Coote looked slightly puzzled.
"That was an awfully jolly week-end I had with you at Chimneys," said
Jimmy. "I mean it would have been awfully jolly if it hadn't been for
poor old Gerry kicking the bucket. Jolly nice girls."
"I find girls very perplexing," said Lady Coote. "Not romantic, you
know. Why, I embroidered some handkerchiefs for Sir Oswald with my own
hair when we were engaged."
"Did you?" said Jimmy. "How marvellous. But I suppose girls haven't got
long enough hair to do that nowadays."
"That's true," admitted Lady Coote. "But, oh, it shows in lots of
other ways. I remember when I was a girl, one of my--well, my young
men--picked up a handful of gravel, and a girl who was with me said at
once that he was treasuring it because my feet had trodden on it. Such
a pretty idea, I thought. Though it turned out afterwards that he was
taking a course of mineralogy--or do I mean geology?--at a technical
school. But I liked the idea--and stealing a girl's handkerchief and
treasuring it--all those sort of things."
"Awkward if the girl wanted to blow her nose," said the practical Mr.
Thesiger.
Lady Coote laid down her wool-work and looked searchingly but kindly at
him.
"Come now," she said, "isn't there some nice girl that you fancy? That
you'd like to work and make a little home for?"
Jimmy blushed and mumbled.
"I thought you got on very well with one of those girls at Chimneys
that time--Vera Daventry."
"Socks?"
"They do call her that," admitted Lady Coote. "I can't think why. It
isn't pretty."
"Oh, she's a topper," said Jimmy. "I'd like to meet her again."
"She's coming down to stay with us next week-end."
"Is she?" said Jimmy, trying to infuse a large amount of wistful
longing into the two words.
"Yes. Would--would you like to come?"'
"I _would_," said Jimmy heartily. "Thanks ever so much, Lady Coote."
And reiterating fervent thanks, he left her.
Sir Oswald presently joined his wife.
"What has that young jackanapes been boring you about?" he demanded. "I
can't stand that young fellow."
"He's a dear boy," said Lady Coote. "And so brave. Look how he got
wounded last night."
"Yes, messing around where he'd no business to be."
"I think you're very unfair, Oswald."
"Never done an honest day's work in his life. A real waster if there
ever was one. He'd never get on if he had his way to make in the world."
"You must have got your feet damp last night," said Lady Coote. "I hope
you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day.
Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering
about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot
you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next week-end, by the way."
"Nonsense," said Sir Oswald. "I won't have that young man in my house,
do you hear, Maria?"
"Why not?"
"That's my business."
"I'm so sorry, dear," said Lady Coote placidly. "I've asked him now, so
it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?"
Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife
and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.
"I particularly don't want Thesiger down next week-end," he said at
last. "I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school
with him."
"What did Mr. Bateman say?"
"He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously
against him."
"He did, did he?" said Lady Coote thoughtfully.
"And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never
known him wrong."
"Dear me," said Lady Coote. "What a mess I seem to have made of things.
Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should
have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now."
She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her,
made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into
the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her
face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond--in a quiet,
unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner--of getting her own way.
CHAPTER XXVI
MAINLY ABOUT GOLF
"That friend of yours is a nice girl, Bundle," said Lord Caterham.
Loraine had been at Chimneys for nearly a week, and had earned the high
opinion of her host--mainly because of the charming readiness she had
shown to be instructed in the science of the mashie shot.
Bored by his winter abroad, Lord Caterham had taken up golf. He was
an execrable player and in consequence was profoundly enthusiastic
over the game. He spent most of his mornings lofting mashie shots over
various shrubs and bushes--or, rather, essaying to loft them, hacking
large bits out of the velvety turf and generally reducing MacDonald to
despair.
"We must lay out a little course," said Lord Caterham, addressing
a daisy. "A sporting little course. Now then, just watch this one,
Bundle. Off the right knee, slow back, keep the head still and use the
wrists."
The ball, heavily topped, scudded across the lawn and disappeared into
the unfathomed depths of a great bank of rhododendrons.
"Curious," said Lord Caterham. "What did I do then, I wonder? As I was
saying, Bundle, that friend of yours is a very nice girl. I really
think I am inducing her to take quite an interest in the game. She hit