Innocence Read online

Soon the maid came forward with the second course. This was a large roast of beef. She placed it on the table in front of Mike, who stood up and carved it, cutting the slices very thin, laying them gently on the plates for the maid to take around. When he had served everyone, including himself, he put down the carving knife and leaned forward with both hands on the edge of the table.

  ‘Now,’ he said, speaking to all of us but looking at Richard Pratt. ‘Now for the claret. I must go and fetch the claret, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘You go and fetch it, Mike?’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my study, with the cork out – breathing.’

  ‘Why the study?’

  ‘Acquiring room temperature, of course. It’s been there twenty-four hours.’

  ‘But why the study?’

  ‘It’s the best place in the house. Richard helped me choose it last time he was here.’

  At the sound of his name, Pratt looked around.

  ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ Mike said.

  ‘Yes,’ Pratt answered, nodding gravely. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘On top of the green filing cabinet in my study,’ Mike said. ‘That’s the place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it.’

  The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and he hurried out the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking softly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The label was out of sight, facing downwards. ‘Now!’ he cried as he came towards the table. ‘What about this one, Richard? You’ll never name this one!’

  Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike; then his eyes travelled down to the bottle nestling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his eyebrows, a slight, supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing outwards of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.

  ‘You’ll never get it,’ Mike said. ‘Not in a hundred years.’

  ‘A claret?’ Richard Pratt asked, condescending.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I assume, then, that it’s from one of the smaller vineyards?’

  ‘Maybe it is. Richard. And then again, maybe it isn’t.’

  ‘But it’s a good year? One of the great years?’

  ‘Yes, I guarantee that.’

  ‘Then it shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Richard Pratt said, drawling his words, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something strange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of something evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of uneasiness as I watched him.

  ‘This one is really rather difficult,’ Mike said. ‘I won’t force you to bet on this one.’

  ‘Indeed. And why not?’ Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, intent look.

  ‘Because it’s difficult.’

  ‘That’s not very complimentary to me, you know.’

  ‘My dear man,’ Mike said, ‘I’ll bet you with pleasure, if that’s what you wish.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.’

  ‘You mean you want to bet?’

  ‘I’m perfectly willing to bet,’ Richard Pratt said.

  ‘All right, then, we’ll have the usual. A case of the wine itself.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ll be able to name it, do you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don’t,’ Mike said. He was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuch to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his next question seemed to betray a certain interest.

  ‘You like to increase the bet?’

  ‘No, Richard. A case is plenty.’

  ‘Would you like to bet fifty cases?’

  ‘That would be silly.’

  Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whiteness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.

  Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows raised, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. And again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the man’s face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themselves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdness, hiding.

  ‘So you don’t want to increase the bet?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, old man, I don’t give a damn,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll bet you anything you like.’

  The three women and I sat quietly, watching the two men. Mike’s wife was becoming annoyed; her mouth had gone sour and I felt that at any moment she was going to interrupt. Our roast beef lay before us on our plates, slowly steaming.

  ‘So you’ll bet me anything I like?’

  ‘That’s what I told you. I’ll bet you anything you damn well please, if you want to make an issue out of it.’

  ‘Even ten thousand pounds?’

  ‘Certainly I will, if that’s the way you want it.’ Mike was more confident now. He knew quite well that he could call any sum Pratt cared to mention.

  ‘So you say I can name the bet?’ Pratt asked again.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  There was a pause while Pratt looked slowly around the table, first at me, then at the three women, each in turn. He appeared to be reminding us that we were witness to the offer.

  ‘Mike!’ Mrs Schofield said. ‘Mike, why don’t we stop this nonsense and eat our food. It’s getting cold.’

  ‘But it isn’t nonsense,’ Pratt told her evenly. ‘We’re making a little bet.’

  I noticed the maid standing in the background holding a dish of vegetables, wondering whether to come forward with them or not.

  ‘All right, then,’ Pratt said. ‘I’ll tell you what I want you to bet.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ Mike said, rather reckless. ‘I don’t give a damn what it is – you’re on.’

  Pratt nodded, and again the little smile moved the corners of his lips, and then, quite slowly, looking at Mike all the time, he said, ‘I want you to bet me the hand of your daughter in marriage.’

  Louise Schofield gave a jump. ‘Hey!’ she cried. ‘No! That’s not funny! Look here, Daddy, that’s not funny at all.’

  ‘No, dear,’ her mother said. ‘They’re only joking.’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ Richard Pratt said.

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ Mike said. He was off balance again now.

  ‘You said you’d bet anything I liked.’

  ‘I meant money.’

  ‘You didn’t say money.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  ‘Then it’s a pity you didn’t say it. But anyway, if you wish to go back on your offer, that’s quite all right with me.’

  ‘It’s not a question of going back on my offer, old man. It’s a no-bet anyway, because you can’t match the stake. You yourself don’t happen to have a daughter to put up against mine in case you lose. And if you had, I wouldn’t want to marry her.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, dear,’ his wife said.

  ‘I’ll put up anything you like,’ Pratt announced. ‘My house, for example. How about my house?’

  ‘Which one?’ Mike asked, joking now.

  ‘The country one.’

  ‘Why not the other one as well?’

  ‘All right then, if you wish it. Both my houses.’

  At that point I saw Mike pause. He took a step forward and placed the bottle in its basket gently down on the table. He moved the salt-cellar to one side, then the pepper, and then he picked up his knife, studied the blade thoughtfully for a moment, and put it down again. His daughter, too, had seen him pause.

  ‘Now, Daddy!’ she cried. ‘Don’t be absurd! It’s too silly for words. I refuse to be betted on like this.’

  ‘Quite right, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Stop it at once, Mike, and sit d