Mulliner Nights (27 page)

‘You plugged
him in the eye?’

‘I plugged him
in the eye, Mulliner. That’s when I got this suit torn. The fellow was annoying
me intensely. He ignored my repeated statement that I gave my name and address
only to my oldest and closest friends, and had the audacity to clutch me by
what I suppose a costumier would describe as the slack of my garment. Well,
naturally I plugged him in the eye. I come of a fighting line, Mulliner. My
ancestor, Bishop Orlo, was famous in William the Conqueror’s day for his work
with the battle-axe. So I biffed this bird. And did he take a toss? Ask me!’
said the Bishop, chuckling contentedly.

Augustine and
Hypatia exchanged glances.

‘But, uncle—’
began Hypatia.

‘Don’t
interrupt, my child,’ said the Bishop. ‘I cannot marshal my thoughts if you
persist in interrupting. Where was I? Ah, yes. Well, then the already existing
state of confusion grew intensified. The whole
tempo
of the proceedings
became, as it were, quickened. Somebody turned out the lights, and somebody
else upset a table and I decided to come away.’ A pensive look flitted over his
face. ‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that my dear wife also contrived to leave without
undue inconvenience. The last I saw of her, she was diving through one of the
windows in a manner which, I thought, showed considerable lissomness and
resource. Ah, here she is, and looking none the worse for her adventures. Come
in, my dear. I was just telling Hypatia and our good host here of our little
evening from home.’

The Lady
Bishopess stood breathing heavily. She was not in the best of training. She had
the appearance of a Tank which is missing on one cylinder.

‘Save me,
Percy,’ she gasped.

‘Certainly, my
dear,’ said the Bishop cordially. ‘From what?’

In silence the
Lady Bishopess pointed at the window. Through it, like some figure of doom, was
striding a policeman. He, too, was breathing in a laboured manner, like one
touched in the wind.

The Bishop
drew himself up.

‘And what,
pray,’ he asked coldly, ‘is the meaning of this intrusion?’

‘Ah!’ said the
policeman.

He closed the
windows and stood with his back against them. It seemed to Augustine that the
moment had arrived for a man of tact to take the situation in hand.

‘Good evening,
constable,’ he said genially. ‘You appear to have been taking exercise. I have
no doubt that you would enjoy a little refreshment.’

The policeman
licked his lips, but did not speak.

‘I have an
excellent tonic here in my cupboard,’ proceeded Augustine, ‘and I think you
will find it most restorative. I will mix it with a little seltzer.’

The policeman
took the glass, but in a preoccupied manner. His attention was still riveted on
the Bishop and his consort.

‘Caught you,
have I?’ he said.

‘I fail to
understand you, officer,’ said the Bishop frigidly.

‘I’ve been
chasing her,’ said the policeman, pointing to the Lady Bishopess, ‘a good mile
it must have been.’

‘Then you
acted,’ said the Bishop severely, ‘in a most offensive and uncalled-for way. On
her physician’s recommendation, my dear wife takes a short cross-country run
each night before retiring to rest. Things have come to a sorry pass if she
cannot follow her doctor’s orders without being pursued — I will use a stronger
word — chivvied — by the constabulary.’

And it was by
her doctor’s orders that she went to the Home from Home, eh?’ said the
policeman keenly.

‘I shall be
vastly surprised to learn,’ said the Bishop, ‘that my dear wife has been
anywhere near the resort you mention.’

‘And you were
there, too. I saw you.’

‘Absurd!’

‘I saw you
punch Constable Booker in the eye.’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘If you weren’t
there,’ said the policeman, ‘what are you doing wearing that sailor-suit?’

The Bishop
raised his eyebrows.

‘I cannot
permit my choice of costume,’ he said, ‘arrived at — I need scarcely say — only
after much reflection and meditation, to be criticized by a man who habitually
goes about in public in a blue uniform and a helmet. What, may I enquire, is it
that you object to in this sailor-suit? There is nothing wrong, I venture to
believe, nothing degrading in a sailor-suit. Many of England’s greatest men
have worn sailor-suits. Nelson …Admiral Beatty—’

‘And Arthur
Prince,’ said Hypatia.

‘And, as you
say, Arthur Prince.’

The policeman
was scowling darkly. As a dialectician, he seemed to be feeling he was
outmatched. And yet, he appeared to be telling himself, there must be some
answer even to the apparently unanswerable logic to which he had just been
listening. To assist thought, he raised the glass of Buck-U-Uppo and seltzer in
his hand, and drained it at a draught.

And, as he did
so, suddenly, abruptly, as breath fades from steel, the scowl passed from his
face, and in its stead there appeared a smile of infinite kindliness and
goodwill. He wiped his moustache, and began to chuckle to himself, as at some
diverting memory.

‘Made me
laugh, that did,’ he said. ‘When old Booker went head over heels that time. Don’t
know when I’ve seen a nicer punch. Clean, crisp…. Don’t suppose it travelled
more than six inches, did it? I reckon you’ve done a bit of boxing in your
time, sir.’

At the sight
of the constable’s smiling face, the Bishop had relaxed the austerity of his
demeanour. He no longer looked like Savonarola rebuking the sins of the people.
He was his old genial self once more.

‘Quite true,
officer,’ he said, beaming. ‘When I was a somewhat younger man than I am at
present, I won the Curates’ Open Heavyweight Championship two years in
succession. Some of the ancient skill still lingers,, it would seem.’

The policeman
chuckled again.

‘I should say
it does, sir. But,’ he continued, a look of annoyance coming into his face, ‘what
all the fuss was about is more than I can say. Our fat-headed Inspector says, “You
go and raid that Home from Home, chaps, see?” he says, and so we went and done
it. But my heart wasn’t in it, no more was any of the other fellers’ hearts in
it. What’s wrong with a little rational enjoyment? That’s what I say. What’s
wrong with it?’

‘Precisely,
officer.’

‘That’s what I
say. What’s wrong with it? Let people enjoy themselves how they like is what I say.
And if the police come interfering — well, punch them in the eye, I say, same
as you did Constable Booker. That’s what I say.’

‘Exactly,’
said the Bishop. He turned to his wife. A fellow of considerable intelligence,
this, my dear.’

‘I liked his
face right from the beginning,’ said the Lady Bishopess. ‘What is your name,
officer?’

‘Smith, lady.
But call me Cyril.’

‘Certainly,’
said the Lady Bishopess. ‘It will be a pleasure to do so. I used to know some
Smiths in Lincolnshire years ago, Cyril. I wonder if they were any relation.’

‘Maybe, lady.
It’s a small world.’

‘Though, now I
come to think of it, their name was Robinson.’

‘Well, that’s
life, lady, isn’t it?’ said the policeman.

‘That’s just
about what it is, Cyril,’ agreed the Bishop. ‘You never spoke a truer word.’

Into this
love-feast, which threatened to become more glutinous every moment, there cut
the cold voice of Hypatia Wace.

‘Well, I must
say,’ said Hypatia, ‘that you’re a nice lot!’

‘Who’s a nice
lot, lady?’ asked the policeman.

‘These two,’
said Hypatia. ‘Are you married, officer?’

‘No, lady. I’m
just a solitary chip drifting on the river of life.’

‘Well, anyway,
I expect you know what it feels like to be in love.’

‘Too true,
lady.’

‘Well, I’m in
love with Mr Bracy-Gascoigne. You’ve met him, probably. Wouldn’t you say he was
a person of the highest character?’

‘The whitest
man I know, lady.’

‘Well, I want
to marry him, and my uncle and aunt here won’t let me, because they say he’s
worldly. Just because he goes out dancing. And all the while they are dancing
the soles of their shoes through. I don’t call it fair.’

She buried her
face in her hands with a stifled sob. The Bishop and his wife looked at each
other in blank astonishment.

‘I don’t understand,’
said the Bishop.

‘Nor I,’ said
the Lady Bishopess. ‘My dear child, what is all this about our not consenting
to your marriage with Mr Bracy-Gascoigne? However did you get that idea into
your head? Certainly, as far as I am concerned, you may marry Mr Bracy-Gascoigne.
And I think I speak for my dear husband?’

‘Quite,’ said
the Bishop. ‘Most decidedly.’ Hypatia uttered a cry of joy.

‘Good egg! May
I really?’

‘Certainly you
may. You have no objection, Cyril?’

‘None
whatever, lady.’

Hypatia’s face
fell.

‘Oh, dear!’
she said.

‘What’s the
matter?’

‘It just
struck me that I’ve got to wait hours and hours before I can tell him. Just
think of having to wait hours and hours!’

The Bishop
laughed his jolly laugh.’

‘Why wait
hours and hours, my dear? No time like the present.’

‘But he’s gone
to bed.’

‘Well, rout
him out,’ said the Bishop heartily. ‘Here is what I suggest that we should do.
You and I and Priscilla — and you, Cyril? — will all go down to his house and stand
under his window and shout. ‘‘Or throw gravel at the window,’ suggested the
Lady Bishopess.

‘Certainly, my
dear, if you prefer it.’

‘And when he
sticks his head out,’ said the policeman, ‘how would it be to have the garden
hose handy and squirt him? Cause a lot of fun and laughter, that would.’

‘My dear
Cyril,’ said the Bishop, ‘you think of everything. I shall certainly use any
influence I may possess with the authorities to have you promoted to a rank
where your remarkable talents will enjoy greater scope. Come, let us be going.
You will accompany us, my dear Mulliner?’

Augustine
shook his head.

‘Sermon to
write, Bish.’

‘Just as you
say, Mulliner. Then if you will be so good as to leave the window open, my dear
fellow, we shall be able to return to our beds at the conclusion of our little
errand of goodwill without disturbing the domestic staff’

‘Right-ho,
Bish.’

‘Then, for the
present, pip-pip, Mulliner.’

‘Toodle-oo,
Bish,’ said Augustine.

He took up his
pen, and resumed his composition. Out in the sweet-scented night he could hear
the four voices dying away in the distance. They seemed to be singing an old
English part-song. He smiled benevolently.

A merry heart
doeth good like a medicine. Proverbs 17, 22,’ murmured Augustine.