‘Oh. That is—er—yes.’ The conversation was drifting into dangerous straits. ‘May I ask you a question, Mrs. Prothero?’
‘Anything you like, my dear—provided Prothero wouldn’t disapprove.’
Heavens! What did she expect? ‘Do you always favour this part of the beach?’
She laughed for no evident reason. ‘Why yes. It is altogether convenient. Guy likes to bathe from the machines near the pier there, Jason has his Punch and Judy show and I adore watching the excursion-yachts. Ah, Bridget has found Guy—the only useful thing that madam has done today.’ She waved to her stepson. He had come by way of the sand at the water’s edge, for ease of walking. Bridget trotted after him superfluously.
‘A fine-looking lad. There’s an upright look about him,’ said Moscrop, as though he meant it.
‘D’you think so, darling?’ (he fervidly hoped she would drop the endearment when Guy joined them). ‘He is not the easiest boy in the world to manage. It must be beastly for him to have to accept me as his stepmother.’
The cue for a compliment. ‘Quite the contrary, Ma’am. He could not possibly find anyone more acceptable. His difficulty, I suggest, is that you are far too
chic
to be thought of in a maternal capacity.’
Guy approached with hand extended. Not before Moscrop had seen Zena Prothero blush. Such timing! He stood to meet the boy with the casual air of Irving after some brilliantly-delivered line on the stage of the Lyceum.
‘Guy Prothero. I understand you saved my stepbrother’s life, sir.’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. Simply returned him to his mother.’
‘We’re grateful, even so. Give me your card and I’ll inform my father. He’ll wish to show his appreciation. D’you smoke cigars?’
Damned impudence! ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He addressed himself to Zena: ‘Now that your stepson has returned, I’ll take my leave, Ma’am. If I might just recover the telescope from young Jason . . . s>. . . . !s>. . . . !s>.’
She had given Guy a thunderous look. ‘You can’t leave like this. I shan’t allow it. You must have dinner with us at the very least. Where are you staying, Mr. Moscrop?’
He touched his bowler in as decisive a parting gesture as he could devise. ‘Most generous of you, Mrs. Prothero, but I really couldn’t put you to so much trouble. Your husband is a busy man—‘ ‘Fudge! If he’s too busy to meet the hero who saved his son’s life, I want to know the reason why!’
Guy said something in an aside to Bridget.
‘What was that?’ demanded Mrs. Prothero.
‘We should leave it to Father to make the arrangements. Do you carry cards, Mr. . . . ? But perhaps your name is pub- lished in the
Fashionable Visitors’ List?
‘ The note of sarcasm was blatantly calculated to insult.
‘Guy! Kindly leave this to me! Take Jason down to the water with Bridget and clean his hands and face.’
The boy shrugged, took a long look at Moscrop, felt in his blazer-pocket for his snuff-box, sniffed some gracelessly, continuing to stare, replaced the box, nodded to Bridget (who picked up Jason), turned and walked slowly away, kicking at pebbles as he went.
‘Your telescope, Mr. Moscrop.’ She held it out and as quickly withdrew it. ‘Oh, but it wants cleaning. The liquorice.’
‘Not with your handkerchief, Ma’am. It is far too delicate to soil.’ But she was already at work, diligently rubbing the chromium. She might have been scrubbing his back, it gave him so much pleasure.
‘You understand my problem now,’ she said as she worked. ‘I must apologise for the boy’s behaviour.’
‘Not at all. A difficult age, Ma’am. A difficult age.’
‘Darling, if you only knew how difficult . . . This is a beautiful instrument, Mr. Moscrop. You shouldn’t have given it to Jason to play with. Lord, I hope the lenses are not damaged! May I look through it?’
‘But of course.’ He stood against the boat, ready to assist.
‘I shall try to pick out Jason. Is he too near for focusing? My dear, I can’t see anything at all.’
Surely this was an invitation! He knelt beside her as she peered through the eye-piece and put his right hand gently over hers to adjust the focus. ‘Hold the telescope steady, then. As I draw out the tube the image will form and you can make it sharper by small adjustments. Do you see anything yet? I am extending it slowly so that you can tell me.’ And so that she could feel the gentle pressure of his fingers on hers.
‘Oh yes! Don’t move it any more, darling. Perfect!’ she said. ‘I can see Bridget as clear as you like, wretched girl. Ah! There is Jason with his feet in the water. What a powerful instrument, Mr. Moscrop!’ She handed it back to him.
‘It’s built for longer distances, actually. If there were a steam-boat in sight . . . I’d better put it away, however. My hobby, you know. Optical instruments. My profession, in fact. I have a shop in Oxford Street.’
‘In London? How exciting! Now I know why you cannot bear to be away for more than three weeks at a time. Darling, you
must
meet my husband. Gregory would be fascinated with your hobby. He has two microscopes himself which I polish for him sometimes. You and he would have so much in common.’
Moscrop got to his feet, picking up his bag. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Prothero. It’s been a rare pleasure talking with you. One never knows what will happen on a beach, does one? It would be an honour to meet Dr. Prothero, and I’m sure he would make me most welcome, but I feel that this afternoon began on the beach with young Jason—and ought to end there. It was a small thing I did, Ma’am. Isn’t it best in the circumstances not to mention it to the doctor? A thing like that’s sure to discommode a man, somewhat. Might lead to the devil of a scene with your servant. I wouldn’t want that to spoil your holiday. Besides, he might be so worried about Jason’s safety that he stopped you from coming to the beach. Then, forgive me, I shouldn’t have the possibility of passing the time of day with you if I came for a walk along the seashore.’
She smiled. It had been a lengthy explanation. ‘Very well, my dear. You are too persuasive. I shall instruct Guy to say nothing. He likes Bridget, I suspect, and will cooperate. But I shall not forget your kindness.’
THERE WAS A DISTURBANCE on the surface of the water in Brill’s Gentlemen’s Swimming Bath—the First Class Bath— in East Street. A head bobbed above water-level, fairish hair flattened to it, revealing unmistakable signs of baldness at the crown: Albert Moscrop’s. He trod water for a few seconds, rearranging his moustache. Behind him two other swimmers performed stately breast-strokes across different diameters of the circular pool. It was sixty-five feet across, the largest of its kind in Europe. Visitors cognisant of the health-giving effects of manly exercises patronised Brill’s First Class Bath as devotedly in the season as the philharmonic concerts at the Pavilion.
Inhaling deeply to inflate his lungs, he inclined his head backwards and allowed body and legs to swing from the vertical to the horizontal so that two sets of white toes broke the surface ahead of him. First-rate water for floating: sea- water obtained, as the management were at pains to point out in a notice in the foyer (in view of recent disclosures in
The Lancet
), from Cliftonville. He relaxed in this supine position, exercising his mind on the meaning of the Latin inscription around the walls; giving that up and looking at the gallery, empty today, but with seating for 400 spectators; finally putting his head right back in the water and enjoying the beauty of Sir Giles Gilbert Scott’s domed ceiling. All so congenial that he wished he could credit himself with the idea of coming here.
The proper cause of his visit was seated on the tiled perimeter of the pool with feet dangling in the water, testing its temperature and trying to appear casual about it—Gregory Prothero, M.D., in stripes worthy of a Hokey Pokey cart.
Moscrop’s conversation with Mrs. Prothero on the beach the previous afternoon had been a revelation. His first reaction had been one of shock, she was so unlike the personality he had assigned to her when he watched her through the binoculars. He had automatically classed her with the numerous sweet, shy and submissive young women catalogued in his memory from hours of observation of seaside promenades and beaches. Yet there she was, as exquisite as any of them, in a single breath invoking the Deity, castigating a domestic and addressing a total stranger in terms of intimate endearment. If his legs had not lost all mobility he would certainly have turned and fled. How could a vision of such elegance and refinement come to possess a turn of phrase like that?
The devil of it was that as the first shock receded he had found himself increasingly fascinated by the gravelly voice assaulting his sensibilities. The perfect consonants and immaculate vowel-sounds gently teased him into a state of acceptance. Before the conversation ended he was snatching up the familiarities like dropped coins. The character he had given her in his imagination was quite displaced and so, if he admitted it, were the characters of all the winsome subjects of his observations. If she was so different on acquaintance, why not they? There was nothing else for it but to renounce the achromatic lens for ever.
For all the strength of her invective she was disturbingly vulnerable. Jason’s adventure, by her own admission, had driven her to the brink of despair. Guy appeared to hold her in total contempt. As for her husband. . . . One did not want to jump to conclusions. Perhaps she was justified in accepting Prothero’s word that when he left her to spend the day alone it was because he was visiting former patients. Perhaps the red-headed young woman riding beside him in the King’s Road parade was known to her only in a medical capacity. Tea-rose complexion and flashing eyes notwithstanding, she might well be recuperating from some debility discernible only to a medical man. It was also conceivable that the lady harpist in the Aquarium Orchestra was a convalescent whose condition was a matter of professional concern to Dr. Prothero. In matters as delicate as this one was well-advised to preserve an open mind for as long as practicable. Nevertheless, the possibility existed that an innocent and trusting woman was being deceived. Without committing himself any further, Moscrop had resolved to watch Dr. Prothero very closely indeed.
For all that, it was a matter for self-congratulation that he was watching him from his present position. A lesser man might have baulked at the door of Brill’s, particularly when arriving there without a costume. It took considerable
savoir-faire
in such circumstances to arrange with the attendant for the hire of the requisite garment. He had followed Prothero there from the forecourt of the Albemarle Hotel, which he had now taken in as part of his morning constitutional—the major part, in fact, for he had passed three-quarters of an hour patrolling it, before the doctor’s appearance soon after eleven. He had then discreetly pursued his quarry along the front, in some anticipation of witnessing an assignation.
But at East Street Prothero had turned in to Brill’s. And although the sign
Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s First and Second-
Class Swimming Baths
caused Moscrop a flutter of expectation, it was subdued at once by the discovery that there were separate entrances for the sexes. Mixed bathing was strictly confined to the more remote stretches of the beach. Brill’s Gentlemen’s section, he soon discovered, was not unlike a club, with its uniformed staff, lounges, reading- and billiards-rooms. There were also the two main pools, a vapour bath, a medical douche and a barber’s shop. If anything untoward happened here, it was not a clandestine meeting between a gentleman and a lady.
So he had paid his one shilling and sixpence, picked up his borrowed costume—‘every one freshly laundered after each hiring, sir,’ he was assured—and followed the doctor’s top hat through the steam to the First Class pool. There, with a touch of brilliance, he had let himself unnoticed into a cubicle on the side opposite, stripped as if his life depended on it, put on the costume and jumped into the water before the doctor unbolted his door. Even as he surfaced, a pair of still-stockinged feet were visible through the gap under Prothero’s door. Who would suspect as he entered a swimming bath that a bather already immersed had followed him there?
What he had not allowed for in his inspired rush to the water was the scarcity of swimmers. He was only the third to take the plunge. Between leaving
terra firma and making his
first contact with aqua marina
he suffered an instant’s apprehension that the water-temperature might be the reason, but he was reassured. It was pleasantly tepid. Doubtless like most social institutions, Brill’s was heavily patronised at certain times and deserted by all but a few enthusiasts at others.
Prothero was patently in no hurry to swim. He had appeared from his cubicle some three minutes after Moscrop’s immersion and remained by the door, limbering up with toe-touching and knee-bending exercises, an exasperating little man, spry in movement and trim in figure. If anything, he appeared younger out of his clothes than in them. Moscrop wondered as he watched from the pool whether a reassessment of the doctor’s age was in order, bald head or no. It was easy to understand a man in such fine physical shape having a certain attraction to the fair sex. Not at all surprising that he should have married three times. Why, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he should. . . . Good Lord! Was this keeping an open mind? To discipline his thinking, Moscrop put thumb and forefinger to his nostrils and dipped his head under the water. When he surfaced, the doctor was sitting at the edge with legs neatly crossed.
‘How’s the water?’
The words literally went over his head as he floated there. He was not used to conversations interrupting his vigils. Observation was essentially a silent occupation. He was still making a mental estimate of the positions of the other two swimmers to ascertain which one Prothero was addressing when the question was repeated.
‘I said how’s the water?’
No doubt about it. The doctor was speaking to him. Deuced awkward. This wasn’t at all a part of his strategy. What could he do—ignore the fellow? Pretend he hadn’t heard? It might have worked if the bath had been swarming with swimmers, but this morning it really wouldn’t do. He lifted his head and his eyes met Prothero’s.
‘Thought you were wearing ear-plugs for a moment. Is it cold this morning?’
Small-talk. Best to go through the formalities and then swim out of earshot at the first opportunity. ‘Not excessively.’
‘I believe in accustoming the body to the water gradually,’ Prothero explained. ‘There’s no benefit in sudden shocks to the system.’
Was this his way of saying he had observed the splash in the pool a few minutes before?
‘Mind you,’ the doctor went on, ‘once I’m in the water I don’t believe in paddling about. Oh no, it’s important not to catch cold. Used in the right way, sea-water’s the finest balm a doctor can prescribe, did you know that? Marvellous for scrofulous infections.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. All forms of paralysis, nervous afflictions, hysteria, headaches, indigestion. Nothing like sea-water to cure ’em. I wouldn’t recommend bathing from a public beach, mind.’
‘No?’
‘By God, no! Contaminated water. The stuff you’re lying in is pumped from Cliftonville, or I shouldn’t have my feet in it, I can tell you. I’ve no liking for open-air bathing, anyway. Did my share of it as a young man, you know, but that was when a fellow wasn’t ashamed to swim in the buff.
‘Here for the season, are you?’
‘Er—yes.’
‘Me, too. I never miss it. There was one year when I was here from race-week to Christmas and I don’t think I missed more than half-a-dozen balls all season. That was a long time back, though. I’ve buried two wives since then and acquired a third.’
Moscrop was not sure whether to offer condolences or congratulations. The doctor was not waiting for responses, anyway.
‘Emily died of smallpox. Solicitor’s daughter with a good dowry. Set me up in practice. Stella was my second. One of the Pelhams. D’you know ’em? Landed family. She ate some bad fish. Killed her overnight. You can see why I’m so strong on contamination.’
‘By Jove, yes. But you married again?’
‘My third?’ Prothero sniffed. ‘Yes. Went for good looks this time. Married a bit beneath my station. Shop-keeper’s daughter. Easy on the eye, but a bit of a liability on social occasions.’ He got to his feet. ‘Time I got my costume wet, I think.’ He entered the water with an agile header and struck out powerfully for the opposite side, using the new Trudgeon stroke. It would not be wise to under-estimate Dr. Prothero.
Moscrop contrived to keep well clear of his new acquaintance, employing the more conventional side-stroke to cross the pool at a different angle. It was as well that he had the physical exercise to occupy him, for he was shaking with indignation, outraged by Prothero’s contemptuous description of the woman he was privileged to call his wife. To say that Zena—from now on, he refused to think of Prothero’s name in association with hers—was ‘easy on the eye’ was like calling the Crystal Palace a glass-house. The man was boorish and insensitive, totally unworthy of her. And, what worried Moscrop more, he had admitted to regarding her as a ‘liability’; what on earth did that mean?
After four diameters, Prothero left the pool by putting his hands on the side and jumping out with a neat bunny-hop. ‘Don’t believe in staying in the water longer than necessary, you know,’ he called. ‘Danger of chills. I’m going to take off my costume and give myself a good rubbing with a coarse towel. Get the body glowing, what?’
Moscrop waited for the sound of the bolt being turned in the door of Prothero’s cubicle before clambering out by way of the steps and locating his own clothes. For him, the process of towelling was necessarily brief; he needed to be ready to take up the pursuit as soon as the doctor quitted his cubicle. From now on, he would be exercising his wits to the full to avoid detection. It was no good bemoaning his lost anonymity. He should count himself lucky that only his face had been revealed; the doctor had no idea what height he was or what clothes he wore. Thank Heavens for a bowler and flannels!
By standing on the seat inside his cubicle he was able to watch the locked door across the pool for the sure indication that it was about to be unbolted—the sight of the crown of a silk hat above it. When it appeared, he ducked out of sight, counted up to twenty and set off after the doctor. In the steam-filled corridor outside, he almost caught him up, but had the resource to stop at a mangle and put his wet costume through it. In the foyer he paused again to return it to the attendant. By then his quarry was outside and crossing East Street. He followed him warily, down to the front, turning right into the King’s Road. The cannon on the West Pier fired. The doctor did what scores of other men were doing at that moment: checked his watch. Then he moved on to the eastern corner of West Street and marched through a dark green painted doorway and out of sight. Moscrop hurried towards it to read the legend over the door,
Real Turtle
Soup Always Ready.
Dr. Prothero was dining at Mutton’s.
The aroma issuing from the double glass door all but seduced Moscrop inside. Turtle soup exerted a strong pull on a stomach subsisting on a Brighton landlady’s cold beef and bread puddings. Moreover, he already had it in mind to patronise Mutton’s; wasn’t it one of Brighton’s institutions, the logical place to visit after a bathe? Not while Dr. Prothero was inside, he decided with admirable self-control. His bowl of real turtle soup was the sacrifice he had to make to preserve what was left of his incognito. So he made a purchase at Streeter’s, the old bun-shop in Pool Valley, and dined surreptitiously from a paper bag, endeavouring to watch the entrance to Mutton’s from a position on the promenade where he could appear to be feeding seagulls.
Prothero must have had a second bowl and perhaps a third, for it was almost two o’clock when he appeared again. He set off along the front on the shop side of the street, retracing his steps towards Brill’s, past the Old Ship and the pungent hop-smells of Black Lion Street. At East Street, Brighton’s most fashionable row of shops, he turned left. Window-displays of wigs, china and antiques, artfully arranged to catch the seasonable visitor’s eye, left him unmoved; he walked with the resolute step of a man with somewhere to go. This proved to be the French chocolate shop halfway up the hill. He marched straight in and presently came out carrying a box tied with a ribbon.