was tipsy — but he wasn’t, he’d just been enjoying himself. They seemed to have eaten strawberries and cream in every cafe between here and Chichester, with Maurice telling all his favourite stories about Sussex saints who played jokes on the devil and pushed their mothers round the countryside in wheelbarrows.
“And since Maurice is a man of the cloth,” said Derek, looking demure, “I had to believe every word.”
He’s really a most attractive young man. Very nice to look at, very willowy — just your sort of thing, so it’s lucky you weren’t here. I don’t quite know what he does for a living. When I asked him, he said, “Oh, whatever I can get someone to pay me for, Mrs. Sheldon.”
Maurice is clearly extremely taken with him and hoping he’ll come down again. He’s even shown him the Virgil frontispiece, which is an exceptional privilege on such a short acquaintance. It isn’t on display, you see — Maurice thinks some of his parishioners might find it slightly improper. So he keeps it in a drawer in the desk in his study and only shows it to people he’s sure will like it. For example, he’s never shown it to Daphne.
And do you think Daphne admits that her premonition or whatever one calls it was entirely wrong? Not a bit of it. Derek has a dark and untrustworthy psychic aura, and she knew right away that he was a treacherous and horrible person — it’s dangerous for Maurice to spend any time with him, so she was absolutely right! She’s getting quite silly and tiresome about it — she told Maurice all about the dangerous aura and tried to make him promise not to see Derek if he came down here again. When he refused, she came round here wanting
I tried to explain to her that one simply can’t ask one’s friends for that sort of promise and she sat saying yes from time to time, as if I were making some kind of impression on her. After about half an hour of which, she said, “But I’m sure he’d promise if you asked him,” and I saw that I might as well have been talking Swahili — there are times when I could shake her.
Julia was no longer writing but gazing out of the window, her expression thoughtful: I had the impression that her mind was no longer on the Finance Act.
“Tell me,” I said, “am I right in supposing that what you are worried about is this young man Derek Arkwright?”
“When I said I was worried,” said Julia, lighting a Gauloise, “I didn’t exactly mean that I was worried, only that I was — well, not worried exactly. But you must admit, Hilary, there’s something rather mysterious about him. And he was, as you will no doubt remember, the only stranger at Isabella’s funeral.”
“Well, at least there’s one thing you can be sure about — he isn’t the man in the black Mercedes. From your aunt’s description, he’s far too young to be Albany or Bolton. Besides, the Reverend Maurice would have recognised him.”
“Yes, I know — I was finding it a rather comforting thought. But now that Cantrip’s suggested this henchman theory—”
I endeavoured to persuade her that her misgivings were unfounded. The young man had given a reasonable explanation of his presence at the funeral and of his subsequent return: we had no grounds to suspect that his motives were in any way sinister.
“Daphne thinks they are,” said Julia, drawing deeply on her Gauloise. “And it’s almost beginning to look as if Daphne — well, as if she were right about things more often than one might expect.”
“Julia,” I said, “you’re not seriously suggesting that Daphne has the power of prophecy?”
“I don’t say prophecy exactly. But some sort of — some sort of something or other.” Perhaps feeling that she had not expressed herself with that degree of precision usually expected of the Chancery Bar, she fell silent.
“My dear Julia,” I said kindly, “you’re talking absolute nonsense.”
“You may not say so,” said Julia, “when you’ve finished reading the letter.”
But I shouldn’t be unkind about Daphne’s prophesying — so far as I’m concerned, it’s turned out rather well.
I told you, didn’t I, that Ricky had invited me to go to the races with him? I didn’t really feel cross enough to turn down a day at Goodwood, not in weather like this, so yesterday I put up the Closed sign in the antique shop and off we went.
We had a picnic lunch on the Downs of cold roast chicken and salad, washed down with a glass or two of Sancerre, and then went into the enclosure to try our luck.
For the first three races I didn’t see anything that specially took my fancy — I just let Ricky put a couple of pounds on for me on whatever he was backing himself. He knows the form book pretty well, and we were a little bit ahead, but nothing spectacular.
But going round the paddock before the fourth race was a lovely little chestnut mare — a darling of a horse, the kind that makes one want to jump up and ride her oneself — and she winked at me. Not literally, of course, but you know what I mean.
I decided to put ten pounds each way on her. I didn’t want to tell Ricky, though — he was backing a big grey horse, which on the form book was an almost certain winner, and he’d have tried to talk me out of it. I told him I was feeling lucky and I’d place my next bet myself to make sure the luck stayed with it.
And then, as I was standing beside the guichet filling in the slip, I suddenly remembered Daphne saying that I was going to have good luck with animals. And before I quite realised what I was doing I’d staked a hundred pounds — all on the chestnut mare and all to win.
I don’t know whether to say I enjoyed the race. The hundred pounds was almost all the money I had with me, and I’d meant it to cover my living expenses for a week — the idea of losing it made me feel rather sick.
We were in the Richmond stand, right beside the finishing line, and even with binoculars I couldn’t see exactly what was happening at the start — just a jumble of bright colours against the green of the Downs. When they turned for home, though, I could see my little chestnut was in the lead, pretty well ahead of the field but with the big grey about three lengths behind and beginning to gain on her — I almost couldn’t watch. On heavier going or over a longer distance I dare say he’d have caught her, but my sweet darling chestnut found a bit of extra speed and came in a length ahead. Well, yes, of course I enjoyed it — it was simply perfect.
And I came home four hundred pounds richer, all thanks to poor Daphne.
Yours with much love,
Reg
“Well?” said Julia as I put down the letter, as if supposing that in the face of such evidence my scepticism could not be maintained.
“My dear Julia,” I said, “anyone who knew that your aunt was fond of racing could have guessed that sometime in the month of August she would make a successful bet on a horse.”
“They couldn’t be sure — suppose she’d lost?”
“Then they would say that the prediction had referred to something quite different. The art of successful prophecy depends on ambiguity — it was, as you will remember, the distinguishing characteristic of the Delphic oracle.”
“The fact remains that on at least three occasions Daphne has turned out to be right about things she couldn’t have known about except by some sort of — some sort of whatever it is.”
“And on innumerable others, I dare say, she’s made equally vague predictions which turned out to be wrong and have therefore made no impression on anyone. Her prediction about Griselda, for example — if Griselda had had any trouble with animals we should no doubt have heard about it.”
I was still trying in vain to reason with her when Selena arrived, tendering apologies for the noise the builders had been making.
“I’m very sorry — they’ve promised it won’t last much longer, but I’m afraid that in the meantime there isn’t much I can do about it.” She had begun to have that slightly beleaguered look often to be observed in those dealing with builders.
“Oh,” said Julia, “there’s no need to apologise. It’s in the nature of builders to make a noise — no one can say that it’s your fault.”
“Oh, can’t they?” said Selena. “Everyone in 62 seems to have decided that the builders are entirely my responsibility. From the way Basil talks about it—”
