No Wind of Blame Read online

  ‘Well, as long as the noise didn’t wake you…’ said Ermyntrude doubtfully.

  Wally, when he put in a somewhat tardy appearance, was accompanied by the dog-Prince, and spent several minutes in explaining to the human-Prince that since the dog was necessary for the day’s sport, he would be obliged to include him in the party.

  ‘But of course!’ the Prince said.

  ‘I’m very glad you take it like that,’ said Wally. ‘In fact, I don’t mind telling you that this dog question has been worrying us a good deal, because there’s no denying it’s very confusing to have a dog and a man both answering to the same name.’

  ‘Ah, you fear that when you call “Heel, Prince!” I shall come running to you!’ smiled the Prince. ‘See, when you want me you should call “Varasashvili!” and then there will be no confusion.’

  ‘Er – yes,’ agreed Wally, ‘but to tell you the truth I’ve a shocking memory for names. Runs in the family.’

  Ermyntrude, who had tried several times to catch her husband’s eye, interrupted him at this point, and began rather hastily to describe the rest of the shooting-party to the Prince. Besides himself and Wally, there would be Robert Steel, Hugh Dering, and Dr Chester.

  ‘He’s good,’ said Mary, looking up. ‘And Robert Steel’s quite useful. Hugh says he’s a rotten shot, but I dare say he isn’t as bad as he makes out. I expect you’re pretty good yourself, aren’t you?’

  He disclaimed, but not in such a way as to lead her to believe him. She said with a faint smile: ‘I hope you’re not speaking the truth, because if you are the gamekeeper won’t be a bit pleased. However, Aunt Ermy told me that you shoot a good deal, so I’m not seriously alarmed.’

  ‘But I find that you are a most unexpected lady!’ he exclaimed. ‘Have you then arranged the shoot, and do you perhaps accompany us?’

  ‘No, I don’t shoot myself, though I did arrange it, I’ve counted you and Maurice Chester as the good ones, Robert Steel as the medium one, and Uncle and Hugh as the definitely poor ones.’

  Vicky, who had drifted in through the long, open window in time to overhear this speech, said: ‘But I can shoot, and I think I might come too.’

  ‘No, dearest, that you most certainly will not!’ said Ermyntrude. ‘I shouldn’t have a quiet moment.’

  Vicky became aware of the Prince, who had sprung up at her entrance, and smiled vaguely in his direction. ‘Oh, hullo! Now I come to think of it, I can’t shoot today. I’m going out with Alan.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ demanded Ermyntrude, not best pleased.

  Vicky selected a peach from the dish on the sideboard, and sat down in the chair the Prince was gallantly holding for her. ‘Well, I thought it would be a kind thing to do, because Janet’s so very dim, and un-understanding about being miserable and squashed into a round hole.’

  ‘Well, if you want to know what I think, Alan’s very lucky these days to have got a job at all,’ said Ermyntrude roundly.

  ‘Lawyers are dusty,’ murmured Vicky.

  ‘It’s a very respectable calling, and if you take my advice you’ll tell Alan to stop talking a lot of nonsense, and get down to his work.’

  ‘Yes, but I shouldn’t like to be articled to a solicitor myself, so probably I won’t,’ replied Vicky with one of her pensive looks.

  ‘That is the young man who came last night?’ inquired the Prince. ‘Such a very earnest young man! Do you like him so much, Vicky? For me, a little dull.’

  ‘Oh no! he writes poetry,’ said Vicky seriously. ‘Not the rhyming sort, either. Can I have a picnic basket, Mummy?’

  ‘But, dearie, aren’t you going to join the shooting lunch?’ said Ermyntrude, quite distressed. ‘Mary and I are going.’

  ‘No, I think definitely not,’ replied Vicky. ‘I thought I’d like to shoot, and now I’ve decided that after all I feel frightfully unhearty, besides rather loathing game-pie and steak-and-kidney pudding.’

  ‘But, Vicky, this is cruel!’ protested the Prince. ‘You desert us for a poet!’

  ‘Yes, but I hope you have a lovely time, and lots of sport,’ she said kindly.

  When Wally presently departed with his guest, Ermyntrude could not forbear to utter a few words of warning to her daughter. It seemed to her anxious eyes that Vicky was treating Alan White with quite unnecessary tolerance. ‘You don’t want to go putting ideas into his head,’ she said. ‘Not but what I’ve no doubt they’re there already, but what I mean is there’s no need for you to encourage him.’

  ‘I think you’re awfully right,’ agreed Vicky, wrinkling her brow. ‘Because, for one thing, I haven’t made up my mind yet whether I’m the managing sort or the only-a-little-woman sort.’

  ‘Did you ever?’ Ermyntrude exclaimed, appealing to Mary.

  ‘Vicky, you’re a goop,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, if I really am,’ said Vicky hopefully, ‘it quite solves the problem, because then I wouldn’t be able to manage Alan at all.’

  She drifted away, leaving Ermyntrude torn between diversion and doubt. Mary remarked soothingly that she thought there was no immediate need to worry over such a volatile damsel: ‘In fact, if I were you, I’d let her go on the stage, Aunt Ermy,’ she said. ‘I believe that’s what she’d really like best.’

  ‘Don’t you suggest such a thing!’ said Ermyntrude, quite horrified. ‘Why, her father would turn in his grave – well, as a matter of fact, he was cremated, but what I mean is, if he hadn’t been he would have.’

  ‘But why should he? You were on the stage, after all.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, and you take it from me that my girl’s not going to be. Not but what she’s a proper little actress, bless her!’

  ‘Well, anyway, don’t worry about Alan!’ begged Mary. ‘I’m perfectly certain there’s nothing in that!’

  ‘I hope you’re right, for I don’t mind telling you nothing would make me consent. Nothing! As though I hadn’t got enough to put up with without that being added!’

  It transpired that Ermyntrude had more to put up with that morning than she had anticipated. Having noticed on the previous day that a button was missing from the sleeve of the coat Wally had been wearing, she went to his dressing-room to find the coat, and took it down to the morning-room for repair, and discovered, pushed carelessly into one of its pockets, a letter addressed to Wally in an illiterate and unknown hand. Ermyntrude, who had no scruples about inspecting her husband’s correspondence, drew the letter from its envelope, remarking idly that it was just like Wally to stuff letters into his pocket and forget all about them.

  Mary, to whom this observation was addressed, made a vague sound of agreement, and went on adding up the Household Expenses. Her attention was jerked away from such mundane matters by a sudden exclamation from Ermyntrude.

  ‘Mary! Oh, my goodness! Oh, I never did in all my life!’

  Mary turned in her chair, recognising in Ermyntrude’s voice a note of shock mingled with wrath. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Read it!’ said Ermyntrude dramatically. ‘It’s too much!’ She held the letter out with a shaking hand, but as Mary took it she seemed to recollect herself, and said: ‘Oh dear, whatever am I thinking about? Give it back, dearie: it isn’t fit for you to read, and you his ward!’

  Mary made no attempt to read the letter, but said in her sensible way: ‘You know, Aunt Ermy, you really ought not to have looked at it. I don’t know what it’s about, but hadn’t you better pretend you haven’t seen it?’

  The ready colour rose to Ermyntrude’s cheeks. ‘Pretend I haven’t seen it? Pretend I don’t know my husband’s got some wretched little tart into trouble? I’ll thank you to realise I’m made of flesh and blood, and not stone, my girl!’

  Mary was accustomed to Wally’s gyrations, but this piece of information startled her. ‘You must be mistaken!’