“But what did he do that was so odd?”
“Do? He—well, there was an old menu card from the yacht Kalliope. It was in the desk and he snatched it up and burnt it.”
“I suppose if your yacht’s wrecked under your feet you don’t much enjoy being reminded of it.”
“No, but I got the impression it was something on the card—” Peregrine went into a stare and after a long pause said in a rather glazed manner: “I think I’ve remembered.”
“What?”
“On the menu. Signatures: you know? And, Emmy, listen.”
Emily listened. “Well,” she said. “For what it’s worth, put it in.”
Peregrine put it in. “There’s one other thing,” he said. “It’s about last night. I think it was when I was in front and you had come through from backstage. There was the disturbance by the boy—catcalls and the door-slamming. Somewhere about then, it was, that I remember thinking of The Cherry Orchard. Not consciously but with one of those sort of momentary, back-of-the-mind things.”
“The Cherry Orchard?”
“Yes, and Miss Joan Littlewood.”
“Funny mixture. She’s never produced it, has she?”
“I don’t think so. Oh, damn, I wish I could get it. Yes,” Peregrine said excitedly. “And with it there was a floating remembrance, I’m sure — of what? A quotation: ‘Vanished with a — something perfume and a most melodious—’ what? I think it was used somewhere by Walter de la Mare. It was hanging about like the half-recollection of a dream when we walked up the puddled alleyway and into Wharfingers Lane. Why? What started it up?”
“It mightn’t have anything to do with Trevor or Jobbins.”
“I know. But I’ve got this silly feeling it has.”
“Don’t try to remember and then you may.”
“All right. Anyway the End of Hols essay’s ready for what it’s worth. I wonder if Alleyn’s still at the theatre.”
“Ring up.”
“O.K. What’s that parcel you’ve been carting about all day?”
“I’ll show you when you’ve rung up.”
A policeman answered from The Dolphin and said that Alleyn was at the Yard. Peregrine got through with startling promptitude.
“I’ve done this thing,” he said. “Would you like me to bring it over to you?”
“I would indeed. Thank you, Jay. Remembered anything new?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.” The telephone made a complicated jangling sound.
“What?” Alleyn asked. “Sorry about that twang. What did you say? Nothing new?”
“Yes!” Peregrine suddenly bawled into the receiver. “Yes. You’ve done it yourself. I’ll put it in. Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“You sound like a pop singer. I’ll be here for the next hour or so. Ask at the Yard entrance and they’ll send you up. ’Bye.”
“You’ve remembered?” Emily cried. “What is it? You’ve remembered.”
And when Peregrine told her, she remembered, too.
He re-opened his report and wrote feverishly. Emily unwrapped her parcel. When Peregrine had finished his additions and swung round in his chair he found, staring portentously at him, a water-colour drawing of a florid gentleman. His hair was curled into a cockscomb. His whiskers sprang from his jowls like steel wool and his prominent eyes proudly glared from beneath immensely luxuriant brows. He wore a frock coat with satin reveres, a brilliant waistcoat, three alberts, a diamond tie-pin and any quantity of rings. His pantaloons were strapped under his varnished boots, and beneath his elegantly arched arm his lilac-gloved hand supported a topper with a curly brim. He stood with one leg straight and the other bent. He was superb.
And behind, lightly but unmistakably sketched in, was a familiar, an adorable façade.
“Emily? It isn’t—? It must be—?”
“Look.”
Peregrine came closer. Yes, scribbled in faded pencil at the bottom of the work: Mr. Adolphus Ruby of The Dolphin Theatre. “Histrionic Portraits” series, 23 April 1855.
“It’s a present,” Emily said. “It was meant, under less ghastly circs, to celebrate The Dolphin’s first six months. I thought I’d get it suitably framed but then I decided to give it to you now to cheer you up a little.”
Peregrine began kissing her very industriously.
“Hi!” she said. “Steady.”
“Where, you darling love, did you get it?”
“Charlie Random told me about it. He’d seen it in one of his prowls in a print shop off Long Acre. Isn’t he odd? He didn’t seem to want it himself. He goes in for nothing later than 1815, he said. So, I got it.”
“It’s not a print, by Heaven, it’s an original. It’s a Phiz original, Emmy. Oh we shall frame it so beautifully and hang it—” He stopped for a second. “Hang it,” he said, “in the best possible place. Gosh, won’t it send old Jer sky high!”
“Where is he?”
Peregrine said, “He had a thing to do. He ought to be back by now. Emily, I couldn’t have ever imagined myself telling anybody what I’m going to tell you so it’s a sort of compliment. Do you know what Jer did?”
And he told Emily about Jeremy and the glove.
“He must have been demented,” she said flatly.
“I know. And what Alleyn’s decided to do about him, who can tell? You don’t sound as flabbergasted as I expected.”
“Don’t I? No, well—I’m not altogether. When we were making the props Jeremy used to talk incessantly about the glove. He’s got a real fixation on the ownership business, hasn’t he? It really is almost a kink, don’t you feel? Harry was saying something the other day about after all the value of those kinds of jobs was purely artificial and fundamentally rather silly. If he was trying to get a rise out of Jeremy, he certainly succeeded. Jeremy was livid. I thought there’d be a punch-up before we were through. Perry, what’s the matter? Have I been beastly?”
“No, no. Of course not.”
“I have,” she said contritely. “He’s your great friend and I’ve been talking about him as if he’s a specimen. I am sorry.”
“You needn’t be. I know what he’s like. Only I do wish he hadn’t done this.”
Peregrine walked over to the window and stared across the river towards The Dolphin. Last night, he thought, only sixteen hours ago, in that darkened house, a grotesque overcoat had moved in and out of shadow. Last night— He looked down into the street below. There from the direction of the bridge came a ginger head, thrust forward above heavy shoulders and adorned, like a classic ewer, with a pair of outstanding ears.
“Here he comes,” Peregrine said. “They haven’t run him in as yet, it seems.”
“I’ll take myself off.”
“No, you don’t. I’ve got to drop this stuff at the Yard. Come with me. We’ll take the car and I’ll run you home.”
“Haven’t you got things you ought to do? Telephonings and fussings? What about Trevor?”
“I’ve done that. No change. Big trouble with Mum. Compensation. It’s Greenslade’s and Winty’s headache, thank God. We want to do what’s right and a tidy bit more but she’s out for the earth.”