The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop

Jim Redsey’s mouth opened. He tried to answer, but no words came. He turned exceedingly pale, became stammering and confused, and, in order to gain time, stooped and picked up his sporting paper from the floor. Having placed it with meticulous care in the very centre of the table, he moistened his lips, furtively wiped clammy hands on the seat of his plus fours, and tried again.

‘No – I – er – no. No, I didn’t know they were coming – that is – he was,’ he stammered confusedly. ‘As you know – I should say – as you probably don’t know – I am only staying here until I hear about a job – a post I’ve been promised. It’s in Mexico, this job. I don’t quite know what sort of a job it is. I believe I sweat round on a horse or something, and generally try and get the other wallahs to put a bit of a jerk in it, and so forth. Anyway, I’m rather keen to get out there, and so on, and I’ve given up my digs in Town, so I’m sort of filling in time down here until I hear definitely. Of course, it was rather decent of Sethleigh to have me here at all, especially as we don’t really know each other frightfully well. Our respective maters didn’t exactly hit it off, you see. They were twins, and my mater always thought Aunt Poppy, that was his mater, put one over her, and a dirty one, too, by beating her into the world by a short head – two hours or something, I believe it was. By doing so, she collected the bulk of the boodle when the old lad died – the house and property, you know – while my mater got fobbed off with the loser’s end, a beggarly thousand quid. Not,’ concluded the young man thoughtfully, but with a certain amount of animation, ‘that a thousand quid wouldn’t come in handy to pretty nearly all of us; but, still, one can see my mater’s point of view. After all, when you expect something and get handed something else, only less so, I suppose you do feel a bit peevish about it. She always felt as though she’d taken a dirty one below the belt. As I suppose you know, the referee dismissed the appeal, too. Oh, yes. She ran it through the courts, and never forgave Aunt Poppy the judge’s summing-up. Idiotic name for an aunt, Poppy, I always think. Makes you wonder whether she’s on the variety stage or something. It’s a sort of a fruity name, if you know what I mean. And my Aunt Poppy’, he concluded sorrowfully, ‘was anything but fruity. Anything but.’

‘Quite, quite,’ murmured the lawyer absently. ‘But, you know, I am quite at a loss to understand your cousin’s going off to America like this,’ he went on, reverting to the matter in hand with some abruptness. ‘And without a word of warning, too! It is not at all the kind of thing Rupert Sethleigh would do. I’ve known him for many years now, and the idea of his going off to America without a word of warning – no, no.’

Jim Redsey mentally substantiated this theory. A vision of Rupert Sethleigh rose before him. A conventional, smirking, fattish fellow, he remembered. One who always appeared a little too well dressed, a little too well fed, a little too self-satisfied; that was Rupert Sethleigh. He was smug. He was contemptible. He considered every word before he uttered it and every action before he performed it. It was difficult to imagine him rushing off to America without warning. It was more than difficult, thought Jim Redsey, who liked to be fair- minded; it was impossible. Rupert Sethleigh was five feet seven and a quarter in his socks, the wrong height for such impetuous behaviour.

‘And what motive had your cousin for going off like this?’ the lawyer demanded brusquely, cutting across the current of Redsey’s thoughts.

Jim smiled uncertainly. The lawyer glanced down at his restless, fidgeting fingers.

‘Motive?’ The sinister word struck oddly and uncomfortably on the ear. ‘What do you mean – motive?’

Before the lawyer could answer, noises off, in the parlance of the stage, announced the entrance of Jim’s only living female relative. It was significant that this was the first time in his whole life that Jim felt glad to see her. She appeared in the hall doorway of the library and petulantly demanded her tea.

Mrs Bryce Harringay was what used to be known as a magnificent woman. She was tall, large, and spirited. By virtue of her relationship to the absent Rupert Sethleigh she was accustomed to claim his hospitality, invade his house, order his servants to wait on her, his cars to transport her, and his meals to suit her convenience. This occurred summer after summer with almost unfailing regularity. Rupert loathed her whole-heartedly. So did Jim. It was the one bond between two exceedingly diverse natures. The one opinion the cousins held in common was that any social gathering, however enjoyable otherwise, was irretrievably ruined by their aunt’s presence. Conversely, they held that any function, however tedious or harassing, was at least tolerable provided that their aunt could not be there. Her conduct on public occasions, they agreed, was only one degree less trying than that of a female lunatic suffering under the delusion that she was a cross between Lorelei Lee and the Queen of Sheba. Jim, given the choice between being afflicted by the plague or with the burden of conversing with his Aunt Constance, would undoubtedly have chosen the plague with all its attendant horrors.

Mrs Bryce Harringay usually was accompanied on her visits to the Manor House by her son Aubrey, a likeable, intelligent boy, and by her pomeranians, Marie and Antoinette, who might have been likeable, intelligent animals but for the inordinate amount of pampering they received from their mistress, and the storms of abuse they incurred from other people. Yappy, snappy little brutes were Marie and Antoinette, with a propensity for sly thieving. Jim Redsey was never quite certain whether his loathing for his Aunt Constance exceeded his loathing for her pets, or whether he detested the little animals rather more than he detested their mistress. In moments when time hung heavily upon his large, powerful hands, he was wont to ponder the problem. He was a slow thinker.

On this particular occasion it happened that his aunt was unaccompanied by her favourites. Having demanded her tea, she lowered her thirteen stone of stately flesh into a comfortable chair, disposed her draperies, which were diaphanous but full, in a graceful and modest manner, folded her hands in her lap, sat bolt upright, fixed Jim Redsey with an accusing glare, and observed with venom:

‘James! What is this I hear?’

‘I – er – may I present Mr Grayling – Mr Theodore Grayling,’ babbled Jim, avoiding her basilisk eye.

‘Long ago I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mr Grayling,’ replied his aunt coldly. She flashed upon the family lawyer a gleaming smile. Her dentist was an artist in his way. ‘You might have imagined that fact for yourself,’ she continued, shutting off the smile promptly as she turned to her nephew.

‘Yes, Aunt Constance,’ agreed Jim jumpily.

‘That is,’ his aunt went on, ‘if you possessed the brain of a bat. Which, of course,’ she concluded roundly, ‘you do not, and never will, possess! Now listen to me. I have made the most appalling discovery!’

Jim gave forth something between a moan and an incipient bellow of fear. The lawyer and Mrs Bryce Harringay stared at him with misgiving, and then glanced at one another.

‘Oh, well, you know – oh, well –’ began Jim thickly. ‘All for the best, I mean. What I mean to say – all these things sent to try us, and all that. I suppose –’

‘I agree,’ said Mrs Bryce Harringay frigidly, ‘that it will certainly try me most sorely, James, most! And your Manifest Sympathy is most touching, especially as the lady in question is entirely unknown to you.’

‘Eh?’ said Jim feebly, taking out his coloured silk handkerchief and wiping his face. ‘Er – oppressive this afternoon, isn’t it? What? Lady in question?’

He sank down, perspiring with relief.

‘Certainly. Mrs Lestrange Bradley has taken the Stone House.’

CHAPTER II

Farcical Proceedings during an Afternoon in June

‘THE mater,’ observed Aubrey Harringay, picking up the fourth ball and dropping it into the string bag, ‘is a sort of walking Who’s Who. She gets to know all about everybody.’

‘Is that the lot?’ asked Felicity Broome, poking about with her racket among the laurels.

‘Four. X for Xenophon, P for Pandora, K for Sybil Thorndike, and this last little chap with the black smudge on his shirt, he’s Q for Quince.’

‘K for what?’ asked Felicity, abandoning her tactics among the shrubbery and commencing to lower the tennis-net.

‘Sybil Thorndike. Didn’t you see her at Hammersmith as Katharina the Shrew?’

‘Of course I didn’t. And you’re not to tell me about it. I’m too envious.’ Felicity smiled sweetly. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Doesn’t your pater care about the theatre? Moral scruples and what not?’

‘Father hasn’t any morals. He’s a clergyman,’ said Felicity, with perfect gravity. ‘We can’t afford the theatre, that’s all. What were you saying about your mother?’

‘The mater? Oh, yes. I was about to remark that she is now putting that reverend bird over there through her version of the Catechism. You know: What is your name? – de Vere or Snooks? Who gave you this name, your