‘That is something on which I cannot pronounce with certainty, Lord Widmerpool.’
Fenneau placed his fingers together again, this time the hands a little apart, in a conventionally parsonic position. He repeated his statement.
‘No. I cannot be sure of that. For one thing I am myself uncertain of Scorpio’s precise whereabouts at the moment.’
‘They could no doubt be ascertained.’
‘I could make enquiries.’
‘I am sure you could run him to earth.’
‘Do you really wish me to do so? I should issue a warning. Charming as Scorpio can be in certain moods, he has what can only be called a darker side too. I cannot advise contact with him to anyone not well versed in the mysteries in which he traffics — not always then.’
Fenneau spoke the words with profound gravity. Widmerpool showed no sign whatever of noticing this change of tone. He did not laugh, because he rarely laughed, but he made little or no attempt to hide the fact that he found this warning absurd. For some reason he was absolutely set on getting Murtlock into his clutches.
‘I think I can assert, by this time, that I am something of an expert on the ways of young people at least as tricky to handle as Master Murtlock. As I said earlier, I should like to add him and his followers — if only temporarily — to our own community, anyway persuade him to come and see us. There is something about him that I have greatly taken to. It may be his refusal to compromise. The question is only whether or not you yourself will be able to bring us together.’
‘Was there any particular aspect, in the difficulties Scorpio was having with the local people, that you found of interest — ones that I could tell him about, if we were to meet in the near future?’
Widmerpool hesitated.
‘I understand there was some rather absurd complaint about nudity, which Murtlock sensibly answered by pointing out that, in the past, stripping to the skin was accepted as a sign of humility and poverty.’
‘That worship should take place unclothed — in the manner of Adam — was a familiar heresy in the Middle Ages. If Scorpio practised such rites, they are ones which I cannot approve.’
Fenneau spoke severely. Widmerpool must have felt that he had got on to the wrong tack. He quickly abandoned what seemed to have become a delicate subject.
‘That was just one of the points, Canon, just one of the points. It may even have been untrue. May I assume then that, if I send a letter through your good self, young Murtlock will get it sooner or later?’
‘If you really wish that, Lord Widmerpool, but I advise against.’
‘In spite of your advice.’
‘Then I will do my best.’
Widmerpool made a gesture of thanks. He withdrew. He rightly saw that further conversation might harm rather than forward his aims. Fenneau asked one of the waiters whether it would be possible to have another cigar. He sat back in his chair.
‘That was interesting.’
‘You dealt with Widmerpool almost as if you were prepared for his approach.’
‘To those familiar with the rhythm of living there are few surprises in this world. Not only is Lord Widmerpool anxious to meet Scorpio, Scorpio has already spoken of his intention to make himself known to Lord Widmerpool.’
‘You kept that dark.’
‘For a number of reasons I judged it best. I am by no means satisfied that their conjunction is desirable. At the same time, what happened tonight convinces me that no purpose is served by refusal to collaborate in transmission of a message. Other more powerful forces are on the march. Che sarà sarà.
‘Why should Murtlock wish to meet Widmerpool?’
‘Scorpio’s plans are not often crystal clear.’
‘He can hardly hope to bring Widmerpool into his cult.’
‘There may be more material considerations. Scorpio is not unpractical in worldly matters. You have probably noticed that.’
‘You mean Widmerpool’s place might provide a convenient temporary base?’
‘That is possible.’
‘Which would make putting up with Widmerpool himself worth while?’
‘To gain mastery is also one of Scorpio’s aims.’
‘Power?’
‘The goal of the Alchemists.’
‘Perhaps a mutual attraction in those terms?’
‘We live in a world in which much remains — and must remain — unrevealed.’
Fenneau looked at his watch.
‘I think I shall have to be wending my way homeward. We have had a most pleasant talk. Ah, yes. Something else. I expect that, in your profession, a lot of books pass through your hands for which you have little or no use, review copies and the like. Books of all kinds flow into a writer’s daily life. Do please remember some of them for my Christmas bazaar. I will send you a reminder nearer the season. Let me have your address. Write it down here. Goodnight, goodnight.’
5
TO BE TOLD SOMETHING THAT comes as a surprise, then find everyone has known about it for ages, is no uncommon experience. The remarks on the subject of Delavacquerie and Polly Duport, dropped by the actor at the Royal Academy dinner, were a case in point. Mere chance must have been the cause of having heard nothing of this close association. It had been going on for some little time, and there appeared to be no secret about their relationship. Mention of it cropped up again, not long after, in some quite other connexion. All the same, although we continued to meet at comparatively regular intervals, Delavacquerie himself never brought up the matter. When he did so, that was about a year later than this first indication that they even knew each other.
During that year, among many other events in one’s life, two things happened that could have suggested achievement of the mutually desired meeting between Widmerpool and Murtlock. The month of both indications was roughly dated as December, by the arrival of Canon Fenneau’s reminder about books for his bazaar, and the fact that, when Greening and I ran across each other in London, we were doing our Christmas shopping. Neither event positively brought home the Widmerpool/Murtlock alliance at the time. The first of these was the bare announcement in the paper that Widmerpool, having resigned the chancellorship of the university, was to be replaced by some other more or less appropriate figure. After his various public pronouncements there seemed nothing particularly notable in Widmerpool preferring to disembarrass himself of official duties of any sort whatsoever.
Greening’s information was rather another matter. It should have given a clue. We met in the gift department of some big shop. Greening, who had been badly wounded in the Italian campaign, had a limp, but was otherwise going strong. He had been ADC to the General at the Divisional Headquarters on which we had both served in the early part of the war; later rejoined his regiment, and, it had been rumoured, died of wounds. He looked older, of course, but his habit of employing a kind of schoolboy slang that seemed to predate his own generation had not changed. He still blushed easily. He said he was a forestry consultant, married, with three children. We talked in a desultory way of the time when we had soldiered together.
‘Do you remember the DAAG at that HQ?’
‘Widmerpool?’
‘That’s the chap. Major Widmerpool. Rather a shit.’
‘Of course I remember him.’
‘He was always getting my goat, but what I thought was really bloody awful about him was the way he behaved to an old drunk called Bithel, who commanded the Mobile Laundry.’
‘I remember Bithel too.’
‘Bithel had to be shot out, the old boy had to go all right, but Widmerpool boasted in the Mess about his own efficiency in getting rid of Bithel, and how Bithel had broken down, when told he’d got to go. It may have happened, but we didn’t all want to hear about it from Widmerpool.’