Who was Ismay? She was Mrs. Francis Cornish, one of the many figures in his biography about whom Darcourt could discover nothing. Or very little. The daughter of Roderick and Prudence Glasson of St. Columb Hall, in Cornwall; a girl who had left Oxford (Lady Margaret Hall) without a degree after a single year; a girl who had married Francis Cornish in St. Columb’s Church on September 17, 1936; a girl who thenceforward seemed to have no existence, so far as documents or other evidence was concerned. A girl whom Darcourt had come upon by accident, and identified by research, for Francis had never spoken of her.
The biographer had done his scholarly best. He had written to Sir Roderick Glasson at the Foreign Office in London, asking for details about his sister, and had received a cold reply saying that so far as Sir Roderick knew, his sister Ismay had died in the Blitz, in a northern city, probably Manchester, and that nothing was known of her, as it was impossible to identify many bodies found in that destruction, and many had never been recovered.
So this was Francis Cornish’s wife as she appeared before their marriage. A girl born to fascinate, and doubtless to be loved by a man of romantic disposition. But what had happened to Ismay? She was part of the gap in the middle of Francis Cornish’s life that tormented Darcourt and made his task as a biographer a nagging burden.
Darcourt could not stop long to admire. He did not want the friendly sub-librarian to approach him with offers of help, or a cup of coffee. Which to take? The heads, obviously. The nudes were too compelling to escape notice even by a hasty examiner. Darcourt, who had a weakness tor female beauty that was not wholly rooted in the feelings of an amateur connoisseur, would greatly have liked to take one of them for himself, but that would be dangerous. The Clerical Cracksman must show self-denial and austerity in what he was doing. Only the heads.
So, with a rapidity that he had practised that morning as he dressed, he took off his jacket and his waistcoat—he was in clerical garb and the waistcoat was one of those broad black expanses of ribbed silk that Anglicans call an M.B. waistcoat, meaning Mark of the Beast because of its High Church and Romanist implications—and lowered his trousers. From under his shirt at the back he took a transparent plastic envelope measuring eighteen inches by twelve, slipped the drawings into it, and shoved it under his shirt again. Up with the trousers, on with the M.B., which had a convenient back strap that held the envelope firmly in place, on with the jacket, and all was completed.
“Thank you very much,” he said to the sub-librarian; “I’ve bundled everything up ready to go back on the shelf.” And he smiled in answer to her smile as he left the room.
“Many thanks, Archie,” he called to his friend, as he picked up his briefcase.
“Not at all, Simon. Any time.”
Out of the Library, step as light as ever, went the Clerical Cracksman, half of his crime completed. But not wholly completed. He must not go tearing back to his rooms at Ploughwright, like a guilty thing, to hide away his swag. No; he went to the Faculty Club, seated himself in the reading-room, and called for a beer. There was only one other member in the reading-room, and that member was to be his alibi, if one should be needed. The person who had seen him come there on his way back from the Library, as innocent as a new-laid egg.
The other member also had a beer, for it was a warm day. He lifted his glass to Darcourt.
“Cheers,” said he.
“Here’s to crime,” said the Clerical Cracksman, and the other member, a simple soul, sniggered at such a jest from a clergyman.
3
“I look upon you as a daring group, a party of adventurers of extraordinary courage, set upon great risk. Perhaps the word for you is doom-eager,” said Dr. Gunilla Dahl-Soot, as the Cornish Foundation sat down to dinner at the Round Table.
“That’s a fine Scandinavian word, but surely rather negative, Doctor?” said Arthur, at whose right hand the guest of honour was seated.
“No, not in the least. It is realistic. You must know that never has any opera or play about King Arthur succeeded with the public, or with the world of art. Never. Not one.”
“Didn’t Purcell write a pretty good opera about Arthur?” said Maria.
“Purcell? No. It is not an opera. I would call it almost a Posse mit Gesang, a sort of vaudeville or fairy-piece. It has some interesting pages, but it has not travelled,” said the Doctor, with immovable gloomy conviction.
“Perhaps we shall succeed where others have failed,” said Arthur.
“Ah, I admire your courage. That is in part what has brought me here. But courage alone is not enough. Certainly not if you follow Purcell. His Arthur is too full of talk. All the action is in speech, not in music. The music is mere decoration. That is not opera. An opera is not talk. Indeed, there should be no talk. Music throughout.”
“Well, isn’t that very much under your control?” said Arthur.
“It may be so. Only time will tell,” said the Doctor and drained her glass of wine at a draught. She had had her full share of the martinis before dinner; she had three at least but appeared to be thirsty still.
“Let’s not begin the evening in a spirit of defeat,” said Maria. “I’ve prepared a very special dinner. It’s an Arthurian dinner. You are going to get what Arthur’s court might have eaten—making necessary allowances.”
“Thank God for necessary allowances,” said Hollier. “I doubt if I could get through a sixth-century meal. What are we having?”
“What a question! Don’t you trust me?” said Maria. “You are beginning with poached salmon, and I’m sure Arthur had excellent salmon.”
“Yes, but this Hochheimer—do you call that Arthurian?” said the Doctor. “I thought King Arthur drank beer.”
“You forget that Arthur was a Cambro-Briton, with five centuries of Roman civilization behind him,” said Maria. “I’ll bet he drank very good wine, and took enormous care about having it transported to Camelot.”
“It may be,” said the Doctor, draining another large glass. “This is a good wine.” She spoke as if uncertain about what might follow.
Dr. Gunilla Dahl-Soot was not an easy guest. She seemed to bring an atmosphere of deep autumn into the penthouse, though it was still no more than early September. The dinner party felt uneasily that it might decline into a hard winter if the Doctor did not cheer up.
The Round Table had not known what to expect, and nobody had foreseen anything in the least like the Doctor. It was not that she was eccentric in any of the ways that might be expected in an academic who was also a distinguished musician. She was beautifully dressed, her figure was a marvel of slim elegance, and her face was undeniably handsome. What made her strange was that she seemed to have stepped out of a past age. She wore a finely designed version of male dress; her jacket was in appearance a man’s tight-waisted blue frock coat, and her tapering green velvet trousers descended toward elegant patent leather boots; she wore a very high, soft collar bound with a flowing cravat, and on her hands were a number of big, masculine rings. Her thick, straight brown hair was parted in the middle and hung to her shoulders, framing a long, distinguished, deeply melancholy face. She’s got herself up as Franz Liszt before he put on his abbé’s cassock, thought Darcourt. Does she get her clothes from a theatrical costumer? But odd as she is, she’s dead right for what she is. Who is she modelled on? George Sand? No, she’s much too elegant. Darcourt, who was interested in women’s clothes, and what went under them, was prepared to be fascinated by the Doctor, but her first ventures in conversation made it clear that the fascination might be a depressing experience.
“I’m glad you like our wine,” said Arthur. “Let Simon fill your glass. Do you like Canada? That’s a silly question, of course, but you must forgive me; we always ask visitors if they like Canada as soon as they step off the plane. Don’t answer.”