‘His conclusions were not necessarily those that compelled agreement, sir.’
Dr Carlisle nodded, but seemed to have become immersed in his own thoughts.
‘You know, Mr Stevens,’ he said, eventually, ‘when I first came out here, I was a committed socialist. Believed in the best services for all the people and all the rest of it. First came here in ‘forty-nine. Socialism would allow people to live with dignity. That’s what I believed when I came out here. Sorry, you don’t want to hear all this rot.’ He turned to me cheerily. ‘What about you, old chap?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘What do you think dignity’s all about?’
The directness of this inquiry did, I admit, take me rather by surprise.
‘It’s rather a hard thing to explain in a few words, sir,’ I said. ‘But I suspect it comes down to not removing one’s clothing in public’.
‘Sorry. What does?’
‘Dignity, sir.’
‘Ah.’ The doctor nodded, but looked a little bemused. Then he said: ‘Now, this road should be familiar to you. Probably looks rather different in the daylight. Ah, is that it there? My goodness, what a handsome vehicle!’
Dr Carlisle pulled up just behind the Ford, got out and said again:
‘My, what a handsome vehicle.’
The next moment he had produced a funnel and a can of petrol and was most kindly assisting me in filling the tank of the Ford. Any fears I had that some deeper trouble was afflicting the Ford were laid to rest when I tried the ignition and heard the engine come to life with a healthy murmur. At this point, I thanked Dr Carlisle and we took leave of each other, though I was obliged to follow the back of his Rover along the twisting hill road for a further mile or so before our routes separated.
It was around nine o’clock that I crossed the border into Cornwall. This was at least three hours before the rain began and the clouds were still all of a brilliant white. In fact, many of the sights that greeted me this morning were among the most charming I have so far encountered. It was unfortunate, then, that I could not for much of the time give to them the attention they warranted; for one may as well declare it, one was in a condition of some preoccupation with the thought that – barring some unseen complication – one would be meeting Miss Kenton again before the day’s end.
So it was, then, that while speeding along between large open fields, no human being or vehicle apparent for miles, or else steering carefully through marvellous little villages, some no more than a cluster of a few stone cottages, I found myself yet again turning over certain recollections from the past. And now, as I sit here in Little Compton, here in the dining room of this pleasant hotel with a little time on my hands, watching the rain splashing on the pavements of the village square outside, I am unable to prevent my mind from continuing to wander along these same tracks.
One memory in particular has preoccupied me all morning – or rather, a fragment of a memory, a moment that has for some reason remained with me vividly through the years. It is a recollection of standing alone in the back corridor before the closed door of Miss Kenton’s parlour; I was not actually facing the door, but standing with my person half turned towards it, transfixed by indecision as to whether or not I should knock; for at that moment, as I recall, I had been struck by the conviction that behind that very door, just a few yards from me, Miss Kenton was in fact crying. As I say, this moment has remained firmly embedded in my mind, as has the memory of the peculiar sensation I felt rising within me as I stood there like that. However, I am not at all certain now as to the actual circumstances which had led me to be standing thus in the back corridor. It occurs to me that elsewhere in attempting to gather such recollections, I may well have asserted that this memory derived from the minutes immediately after Miss Kenton’s receiving news of her aunt’s death; that is to say, the occasion when, having left her to be alone with her grief, I realized out in the corridor that I had not offered her my condolences. But now, having thought further, I believe I may have been a little confused about this matter; that in fact this fragment of memory derives from events that took place on an evening at least a few months after the death of Miss Kenton’s aunt – the evening, in fact, when the young Mr Cardinal turned up at Darlington Hall rather unexpectedly.
Mr Cardinal’s father, Sir David Cardinal, had been for many years his lordship’s closest friend and colleague, but had been tragically killed in a riding accident some three or four years prior to the evening I am now recalling. Meanwhile, the young Mr Cardinal had been building something of a name for himself as a columnist, specializing in witty comments on international affairs. Evidently, these columns were rarely to Lord Darlington’s liking, for I can recall numerous instances of his looking up from a journal and saying something like: ‘Young Reggie writing such nonsense again. Just as well his father’s not alive to read this.’ But Mr Cardinal’s columns did not prevent him being a frequent visitor at the house; indeed, his lordship never forgot that the young man was his godson and always treated him as kin. At the same time, it had never been Mr Cardinal’s habit to turn up to dinner without any prior warning, and I was thus a little surprised when on answering the door that evening I found him standing there, his briefcase cradled in both arms.
‘Oh, hello, Stevens, how are you?’ he said. ‘Just happened to be in a bit of a jam tonight and wondered if Lord Darlington would put me up for the night.’
‘It’s very nice to see you again, sir. I shall tell his lordship you are here.’
‘I’d intended to stay at Mr Roland’s place, but there seems to have been some misunderstanding and they’ve gone away somewhere. Hope it’s not too inconvenient a time to call. I mean, nothing special on tonight, is there?’
‘I believe, sir, his lordship is expecting some gentlemen to call after dinner.’
‘Oh, that’s bad luck. I seem to have chosen a bad night. I’d better keep my head low. I’ve got some pieces I have to work on tonight anyway.’ Mr Cardinal indicated his briefcase.
‘I shall tell his lordship you are here, sir. You are, in any case, in good time to join him for dinner.’
‘Jolly good, I was hoping I might have been. But I don’t expect Mrs Mortimer’s going to be very pleased with me.’
I left Mr Cardinal in the drawing room and made my way to the study, where I found his lordship working through some pages with a look of deep concentration. When I told him of Mr Cardinal’s arrival, a look of surprised annoyance crossed his face. Then he leaned back in his chair as though puzzling something out.
‘Tell Mr Cardinal I’ll be down shortly,’ he said finally. ‘He can amuse himself for a little while.’
When I returned downstairs, I discovered Mr Cardinal moving rather restlessly around the drawing room examining objects he must long ago have become familiar with. I conveyed his lordship’s message and asked him what refreshments I might bring him.
‘Oh, just some tea for now, Stevens. Who’s his lordship expecting tonight?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I am unable to help you.’
‘No idea at all?’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Hmm, curious. Oh, well. Better keep my head low tonight.’
It was not long after this, I recall, that I went down to Miss Kenton’s parlour. She was sitting at her table, though there was nothing before her and her hands were empty; indeed, something in her demeanour suggested she had been sitting there like that for some time prior to my knocking.
‘Mr Cardinal is here, Miss Kenton,’ I said. ‘He’ll be requiring his usual room tonight.’
‘Very good, Mr Stevens. I shall see to it before I leave.’
‘Ah. You are going out this evening, Miss Kenton?’
‘I am indeed, Mr Stevens.’
Perhaps I looked a little surprised, for she went on:
‘You will recall, Mr Stevens, we discussed this a fortnight ago.’
‘Yes, of course, Miss Kenton. I beg your pardon, it had just slipped my mind for the moment.’
‘Is something the matter, Mr Stevens?’
‘Not at all, Miss Kenton. Some visitors are expected this evening, but there is no reason why your presence will be required.’
‘We did agree to my taking this evening off a fortnight ago, Mr Stevens.’
‘Of course, Miss Kenton. I do beg your pardon.’
I turned to leave, but then I was halted at the door by Miss Kenton saying:
‘Mr Stevens, I have something to tell you.’
‘Yes, Miss Kenton?’
‘It concerns my acquaintance. Who I am going to meet tonight.’
‘Yes, Miss Kenton.’
‘He has asked me to marry him. I thought you had a right to know that.’
‘Indeed, Miss Kenton. That is very interesting.’
‘I am still giving the matter thought.’
‘Indeed.’
She glanced down a second at her hands, but then almost immediately her gaze returned to me.
‘My acquaintance is to start a job in the West Country as of next month.’
‘Indeed.’
‘As I say, Mr Stevens, I am still giving the matter some thought. However, I thought you should be informed of the situation.’
‘I’m very grateful, Miss Kenton. I do hope you have a pleasant evening. Now if you will excuse me.’
It must have been twenty minutes or so later that I encountered Miss Kenton again, this time while I was busy with preparations for dinner. In fact, I was half-way up the back staircase, carrying a fully laden tray, when I heard the sound of angry footsteps rattling the floorboards somewhere below me. Turning, I saw Miss Kenton glaring up at me from the foot of the stairs.
Mr Stevens, do I understand that you are wishing me to remain on duty this evening?’