Overture to Death

CHAPTER 1 The Meet at Pen Cuckoo

Jocelyn Jernigham was a good name. The seventh Jocelyn thought so as he stood at his study window and looked down the vale of Pen Cuckoo toward that precise spot where the spire of Salisbury Cathedral could be seen through field-glasses on a clear day.

‘Here I stand,’ he said without turning his head, ‘and here my forebears have stood, generation after generation, and looked over their own tilth and tillage. Seven Jocelyn Jernighams.’

‘I’m never quite sure,’ said his son Henry Jocelyn, ‘what tilth and tillage are. What precisely, Father, is tilth?’

‘There’s no feeling for that sort of thing,’ said Jocelyn, angrily, ‘among the present generation. Cheap sneers and clever talk that mean nothing.’

‘But I assure you I like words to mean something. That is why I ask you to define a tilth. And you say, “the present generation.” You mean my generation, don’t you? But I’m twenty-three. There is a newer generation than mine. If I marry Dinah –’

‘You quibble deliberately in order to lead our conversation back to this absurd suggestion. If I had known –’

Henry uttered an impatient noise and moved away from the fireplace. He joined his father in the window and he too looked down into the darkling vale of Pen Cuckoo. He saw an austere landscape, adamant beneath drifts of winter mist. The naked trees slept soundly, the fields were dumb with cold; the few stone cottages, with their comfortable signals of blue smoke, were the only waking things in all the valley.

‘I too love Pen Cuckoo,’ said Henry, and he added, with that tinge of irony which Jocelyn, who did not understand it, found so irritating: ‘I have all the pride of prospective ownership. But I refuse to be bully-ragged by Pen Cuckoo. I refuse to play the part of a Victorian young gentleman with a touch of Cophetua thrown in. I refuse to allow this conversation to run along the lines of ancient lineage. The proud father and self-willed heir stuff simply doesn’t fit. We are not discussing a possible misalliance. Dinah is not a blushing maid of inferior station. She is part of the country, rooted equally with us. If we are going to talk about her in country terms, I can strike a suitable attitude and say there have been Copelands at the rectory for as many generations as there have been Jernighams at Pen Cuckoo.’

‘You are both much too young –’ began Jocelyn.

‘No, really, sir, that won’t do. What you mean is that Dinah is too poor. If it had been somebody smarter and richer, you and my dear cousin Eleanor wouldn’t have talked about youth. Don’t let’s pretend.’

‘And don’t you talk to me like a damned sententious young puppy, Henry, because I won’t have it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry, ‘I know I’m being tiresome.’

‘You’re being extremely tiresome. Very well, I’ll speak as plainly as you like. Pen Cuckoo means more to me and should mean more to you, than anything else in life. You know as well as I do that we’re damned hard up. There are all sorts of things that should be done to the place. Those cottages up at Cloudyfold! Winton! Rumbold tells me that Winton’ll leak like a basket if we don’t fix up the roof. The point is –’

‘I can’t afford to make a poor marriage?’

‘If you choose to put it like that.’

‘How else can one put it?’

‘Very well, then.’

‘Well, since we must speak in terms of hard cash, which I assure you I don’t enjoy, Dinah won’t always be the poor parson’s one ewe lamb.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Jocelyn, uneasily, but with a certain air of pricking up his ears.

‘I thought everyone knew Miss Campanula has left all her filthy lucre, or most of it, to the rector. Don’t pretend, Father; you must have heard that piece of gossip. The cook and housemaid witnessed the will and the housemaid overheard Miss C. bawling about it to her lawyer. Dinah doesn’t want the money and nor do I – much – but that’s what’ll happen to it eventually.’

‘Servant’s gossip,’ muttered the squire. ‘Most distasteful. Anyway, it may not – she may change her mind. It’s now we’re so damned hard-up.’

‘Let me find a job of work,’ Henry said.

‘Your job of work is here.’

‘What! with a perfectly good agent who looks upon me as a sort of impediment in his agricultural speech?’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Look here, Father,’ said Henry gently, ‘how much of this has been inspired by Eleanor?’

‘Eleanor is as anxious as I am that you shouldn’t make a bloody fool of yourself. If your mother had been alive –’

‘No, no,’ cried Henry, ‘let us not put ideas into the minds of the dead. That is so grossly unfair. Let’s recognize Eleanor’s hand in this. Eleanor has been too clever by half. I didn’t mean to tell you about Dinah until I was sure that she loved me. I am not sure. The scene, which Eleanor so conveniently overheard yesterday at the rectory, was purely tentative.’ He broke off, turned away from his father, and pressed his cheek against the window pane.

‘It is intolerable,’ said Henry, ‘that Eleanor should have spoilt the memory of my first – my first approach to Dinah. To stand in the hall, as she must have done, and to listen! To come clucking back to you like a vulgar hen, agog with her news! As if Dinah was a housemaid with a follower. No, it’s too much!’

‘You’ve never been fair to Eleanor. She’s done her best to take your mother’s place.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Henry violently, ‘don’t use that detestable phrase! Cousin Eleanor has never taken my mother’s place. She is an ageing spinster cousin of the worst type. It was not particularly kind of her to come to Pen Cuckoo. Indeed, it was her golden opportunity. She left the Cromwell Road for the glories of “county.” It was the great moment of her life. She’s a vulgarian.’

‘On her mother’s side,’ said Jocelyn, ‘she’s a Jernigham.’

‘Oh, my dear father!’ said Henry, and burst out laughing.

Jocelyn glared at his son, turned purple in the face, and began to stammer.

‘You may laugh, but Eleanor – Eleanor – in bringing this information – unavoidably overheard – no question of eavesdropping – only doing what she believed to be her duty.’

‘I’m sure she told you that.’

‘She did and I agreed with her. I am most strongly opposed to this affair with Dinah, and I am most relieved to hear that so far it is, as you put it, purely tentative.’

‘If Dinah loves me,’ said Henry, setting the Jernigham jaw, ‘I shall marry her. And that’s flat. If Eleanor wasn’t here to jog at your pride, Father, you would at least try to see my side. But Eleanor won’t let you. She dramatizes herself as the first lady of the district. The squiress. The chatelaine of Pen Cuckoo. She sees Dinah as a sort of rival. What’s more, I believe she’s genuinely jealous of Dinah. It’s the jealousy of a woman of her age and disposition, a jealousy rooted in sex.’

‘Disgusting balderdash!’ said Jocelyn, angrily, but he looked uncomfortable.

‘No!’ cried Henry. ‘No, it’s not. I’m not talking highbrow pornography. You must have seen what Eleanor is. She’s an avid woman. She was in love with you until she found it was a hopeless proposition. Now she and her girl friend the Campanula are rivals for the rector. Dinah says all old maids always fall in love with her father. Everybody sees it. It’s a recognized phenomenon with women of Eleanor’s and Idris Campanula’s type. Have you heard her on the subject of Dr Templett and Selia Ross? She’s nosed out a scandal there. The next thing that happens will be Eleanor feeling it her duty to warn poor Mrs Templett that her husband is too fond of the widow. That is, if Idris Campanula doesn’t get in first. Women like Eleanor and Miss Campanula are pathological. Dinah says –’

‘Do you and Dinah discuss my cousin’s attachment, which I don’t admit, for the rector? If you do, I consider it shows an extraordinary lack of manners and taste.’

‘Dinah and I,’ said Henry, ‘discuss everything.’

‘And this is modern love-making!’

‘Don’t let’s start abusing each other’s generations, Father. We’ve never done that. You’ve been so extraordinarily understanding in so many ways. It’s Eleanor!’ said Henry. ‘It’s Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor who is to blame for this!’

The door at the far end of the room was opened and against the lamplit hall beyond appeared a woman’s figure.

‘Did I hear you call me, Henry?’ asked a quiet voice.

II

Miss Eleanor Prentice came into the room. She reached out a thin hand and switched on the lights.

‘It’s past five o’clock,’ said Miss Prentice. ‘Almost time for our little meeting. I asked them all for half-past five.’

She walked with small mimbling steps towards the cherrywood table which, Henry noticed, had been moved from the wall into the centre of the study. Miss Prentice began to place pencils and sheets of paper at intervals round the table. As she did this she produced, from between her thin closed lips, a deary flat humming which irritated Henry almost beyond endurance. More to stop this noise than because he wanted to know the answer, Henry asked:

‘What meeting, Cousin Eleanor?’

‘Have you forgotten, dear? The entertainment committee. The rector and Dinah, Dr Templett, Idris Campanula, and ourselves. We are counting on you. And on Dinah, of course.’

She uttered this last phrase with additional sweetness. Henry thought, ‘She knows we’ve been talking about Dinah.’ As she fiddled with her pieces of paper Henry watched her with that peculiar intensity that people sometimes lavish on a particularly loathed individual.

Eleanor Prentice was a thin, colourless woman of perhaps forty-nine years. She disseminated the odour of sanctity to an extent that Henry found intolerable. Her perpetual half-smile suggested that she was of a gentle and sweet disposition. This faint smile caused many people to overlook the strength of her face, and that was a mistake, for its strength was considerable. Miss Prentice was indeed a Jernigham. Henry suddenly thought that it was rather hard on Jocelyn that both his cousin and his son should look so much more like the family portraits than he did. Henry and Eleanor had each got the nose and jaw proper to the family. The squire had inherited his mother’s round chin and indeterminate nose. Miss Prentice’s prominent grey eyes stared coldly upon the world through rimless pince-nez. The squire’s blue eyes, even when inspired by his frequent twists of ineffectual temper, looked vulnerable and slightly surprised. Henry, still watching her, thought it strange that he himself should resemble this woman whom he disliked so cordially. Without a taste in common, with violently opposed views on almost all ethical issues, and with a profound mutual distrust, they yet shared a certain hard determination which each recognized in the other. In Henry this quality was tempered by courtesy and by a generous mind. She was merely polite and long-suffering. It was typical of her that although she had evidently overheard Henry’s angry reiteration of her name, she accepted his silence and did not ask again why he had called her. Probably, he thought, because she had stood outside the door listening. She now began to pull forward the chairs.

‘I think we must give the rector your arm-chair, Jocelyn,’ she said. ‘Henry, dear, would you mind? It’s rather heavy.’

Henry and Jocelyn helped her with the chair and, at her instruction, threw more logs of wood on the fire. These arrangements completed, Miss Prentice settled herself at the table.

‘I think your study is almost my favourite corner of Pen Cuckoo, Jocelyn,’ she said brightly.

The squire muttered something, and Henry said, ‘But you are very fond of every corner of the house, aren’t you, Cousin Eleanor?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘Ever since my childhood days when I used to spend my holidays here (you remember, Jocelyn?) I’ve loved the dear old home.’

‘Estate agents,’ Henry said, ‘have cast a permanent opprobrium on the word “home.” It has come to mean nothing. It is a pity that when I marry, Cousin Eleanor, I shall not be able to take my wife to Winton. I can’t afford to mend the roof, you know.’

Jocelyn cleared his throat, darted an angry glance at his son, and returned to the window.

‘Winton is the dower-house, of course,’ murmured Miss Prentice.

‘As you already know,’ Henry continued, ‘I have begun to pay my addresses to Dinah Copeland. From what you overheard at the rectory do you think it likely that she will accept me?’

He saw her eyes narrow but she smiled a little more widely, showing her prominent and unlovely teeth. ‘She’s like a French caricature of an English spinster,’ thought Henry.

‘I’m quite sure, dear,’ said Miss Prentice, ‘that you do not think I willingly overheard your little talk with Dinah. Far from it. It was very distressing when I caught the few words that –’

‘That you repeated to Father? I’m sure you were.’

‘I thought it my duty to speak to your father, Henry.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think, dear, that you two young people are in need of a little wise guidance.’

‘Do you like Dinah?’ asked Henry abruptly.

‘She has many excellent qualities, I am sure,’ said Miss Prentice.

‘I asked you if you liked her, Cousin Eleanor.’

‘I like her for those qualities. I am afraid, dear, that I think it better not to go any further just at the moment.’

‘I agree,’ said Jocelyn from the window. ‘Henry, I won’t have any more of this. These people will be here in a moment. There’s the rectory car, now, coming round Cloudyfold bend. There’ll be here in five minutes. You’d better tell us what it’s all about, Eleanor.’

Miss Prentice seated herself at the foot of the table. ‘It’s the YPFC,’ she said. ‘We badly want funds and the rector suggested that perhaps we might get up a little play. You remember, Jocelyn. It was the night we dined there.’

‘I remember something about it,’ said the squire.

‘Just among ourselves,’ continued Miss Prentice, ‘I know you’ve always loved acting, Jocelyn, and you’re so good at it. So natural. Do you remember Ici on Parle Français in the old days? I’ve talked it all over with the rector and he agrees it’s a splendid idea. Dr Templett is very good at theatricals, especially in funny parts, and dear Idris Campanula, of course, is all enthusiasm.’

‘Good Lord!’ ejaculated Henry and his father together.

‘What on earth is she going to do in the play?’ asked Jocelyn.

‘Now, Jocelyn, we mustn’t be uncharitable,’ said Miss Prentice, with a cold glint of satisfaction in her eye. ‘I dare say poor Idris would make quite a success of a small part.’

‘I’m too old,’ said Jocelyn.

‘What nonsense, dear. Of course you’re not. We’ll find something that suits you.’

‘I’m damned if I’ll make love to the Campanula,’ said the squire ungallantly. Eleanor assumed her usual expression for the reception of bad language, but it was coloured by that glint of complacency.

‘Please, Jocelyn,’ she said.

‘What’s Dinah going to do?’ asked Henry.

‘Well, as dear Dinah is almost a professional –’

‘She is a professional,’ said Henry.

‘Such a pity, yes,’ said Miss Prentice.

‘Why?’

‘I’m old-fashioned enough to think that the stage is not a very nice profession for a gentlewoman, Henry. But of course Dinah must act in our little piece. If she isn’t too grand for such humble efforts.’

Henry opened his mouth and shut it again. The squire said, ‘Here they are.’

There was the sound of a car pulling up on the gravel drive outside, and two cheerful toots on an out-of-date klaxon.

‘I’ll go and bring them in,’ offered Henry.

III

Henry went out through the hall. When he opened the great front door the upland air laid its cold hand on his face. He smelt frost, dank earth, and dead leaves. The light from the house showed him three figures climbing out of a small car. The rector, his daughter Dinah, and a tall woman in a shapeless fur coat – Idris Campanula. Henry produced the right welcoming noises and ushered them into the house. Taylor, the butler, appeared, and laid expert hands on the rector’s shabby overcoat. Henry, his eyes on Dinah, dealt with Miss Campanula’s furs. The hall rang with Miss Campanula’s conversation. She was a large arrogant spinster with a firm bust, a high-coloured complexion, coarse grey hair, and enormous bony hands. Her clothes were hideous but expensive, for Miss Campanula was extremely wealthy. She was supposed to be Eleanor Prentice’s great friend. Their alliance was based on mutual antipathies and interests. Each adored scandal and each cloaked her passion in a mantle of conscious rectitude. Neither trusted the other an inch, but there was no doubt that they enjoyed each other’s company. In conversation their technique varied widely. Eleanor never relinquished her air of charity and when she struck, the blow always fell obliquely. But Idris was one of those women who pride themselves on their outspokenness. Repeatedly did she announce that she was a downright sort of person. She was particularly fond of saying that she called a spade a spade, and in her more daring moments would add that her cousin, General Campanula, had once told her that she went further than that and called it a ‘B shovel.’ She cultivated an air of bluff forthrightness that should have deceived nobody, but actually passed as true currency among the simpler of her acquaintances. The truth was that she reserved to her self the right of broad speech, but would have been livid with rage if anybody had replied in kind.