The Last Houseparty by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online

Snailwood added to the sense of ritual entry by carrying before him a single pink rose, half-way between bud and full bloom. He was wearing much the same clothes as in the Birley portrait, tweeds and gaiters. His scalp, tanned and mottled, glistened with mild sweat. He approached Zena and with a stilted bow presented her with the rose.
    â€œOh, isn’t it perfect,” she cooed.
    â€œPerfection to perfection,” said Lord Snailwood, speaking as though he were grumbling about something.
    â€œHow sweet you are. Has the darling thing a name?”
    â€œThe Doctor, of course. Show standard, in my opinion.”
    â€œAward of merit, dearest. But could I ask you possibly to do the other bowls first and this one after tea? We’re talking, you see.”
    â€œNot possible,” said Lord Snailwood. “Terribly sorry, dear, but I must do the big bowl first. Only way to get it right. Can’t hope to do that with the left-overs.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact,” said Vincent, “I’ve g-got to be off. I’ve an appointment in five minutes.”
    â€œAh, Vincent, glad to see you,” said Lord Snailwood. “I want you to talk to McGrigor about the clock.”
    Lord Snailwood always spoke briskly and clearly, but still somehow gave the impression that he wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, but rather to the whole room or the passing air. It was as though he lacked confidence in the interest of his remarks to be sure that any one person would want to hear them, and so preferred to send them forth at large in the hope that there might be a pair of ears within range with nothing better to listen to at the moment. Thus among strangers he sometimes evoked no response whatever; more often, because of the inherent value of words that have just passed between the lips of an earl, several of his hearers would hasten to respond, and then halt, mutually abashed. Not many of his utterances were as remarkable as this last.
    â€œYou don’t say!” said Harry.
    â€œI certainly do say,” said Lord Snailwood. “I will have him up tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock, eh, Vincent?”
    â€œNo, dearest,” said Zena. “Vincent has to meet the 10.43 at High Wycombe.”
    â€œA train? You mean he’s got to meet a train?”
    â€œYes, dearest. McGrigor will drive Vincent and Charles Archer to meet the train. When they get back, which will be about eleven-fifteen, they can talk about the clock. There will be time for that before Sir John and the others come. And then in the afternoon some of us are going over to Bullington to play croquet, and the politicians are staying here.”
    Zena spoke almost dreamily, but it was characteristic of her that she had the time-table of the week-end precise in her mind, and was able with no fluster at all to accommodate the extra item of talk about the clock. Lord Snailwood nodded.
    â€œEleven-fifteen, then, Vincent,” he said. “Keep an eye on McGrigor. Don’t let him slip away.”
    â€œI’ll do my best, sir.”
    â€œVincent,” murmured Zena. “I am most interested that you have an appointment so soon after coming to Snailwood.”
    â€œOnly half an hour. I’ll be down for tea.”
    â€œCome here, Vincent darling. Bend down. I want to whisper. Closer.”
    Though Vincent eventually knelt with his ear only inches from Zena’s mouth, her whisper when it came was as carrying as an actor’s. Harry could certainly have heard it, and Lord Snailwood if he’d been listening, and quite likely the pricked ears of Purser and Thring and the new footman, as they waited to perform their functions where the huge bronze urn stood empty on its stand just clear of the overhang of the gallery.
    â€œYou are not to debauch any of my maids this visit,” she said. “The servant problem is quite difficult enough without that.”
    Before he could protest she laughed like