“You mean Reggie and Perry eloped?” I asked, in well-simulated astonishment.
“Idiot,” said Ursula angrily, “you know perfectly well what I mean, Perry and Marjorie eloped. I do wish you would stop making fun of this, it’s very serious.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “do go on.”
“Well,” said Ursula, slightly mollified by my apology, “of course this really put a cat among the pigeons. Reggie was simply furious because Marjorie had not only eloped but had taken the baby and the nannie with her.”
“It certainly sounds like a very overcrowded elopement.”
“And naturally,” Ursula continued, “Perry’s father took it very hard. As you can imagine it’s difficult for a Duke to condone his only son’s adulteration.”
“But adultery is when the husband is at fault, as a rule,” I protested.
“I don’t care who’s at fault,” said Ursula firmly, “it’s still adulteration.”
I sighed. The problem itself seemed complex enough without the additional difficulty of having Ursula’s interpretation of it.
“In any case,” she went on, “As I told Marjorie it was as good as incest.”
“Incest? ”
“Yes,” said Ursula, “after all the boy was under age and in any case, as she well knew, adulteration has to be done by adults.”
I took a deep drink of my brandy to steady myself. It was obvious that Ursula had grown worse over the years.
“I think I had better take you to lunch while you tell me the rest of this.”
“Oh, darling, will you? How wonderful. But I mustn’t be late because I’ve got to go to Marjorie’s, because I don’t know where Reggie is and the Duke’s arriving.”
“You mean,” I said slowly and carefully, “that all these people you have been talking about are here, in Venice ?”
“But of course, sweetie,” she said, wide-eyed. “That’s why I want you to help me. Didn’t you understand?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t understand. But just remember that I have not the slightest intention of getting muddled up in this affair. Let’s go and have lunch . . . where would you like to go?”
“I’d like to go to the ‘Laughing Cat’,” said Ursula.
“Where the hell’s that?”
“I don’t know, but I was told it was very good,” she said, powdering her nose.
“All right, I’ll find out,” I said. I called the waiter over, paid for the drinks and asked the way to the ‘Laughing Cat’. It turned out to be within easy walking distance of the Piazza San Marco, a small but well-appointed little restaurant which, judging by the fact that most of its clientele were Venetians, was going to provide us with pretty substantial fare. We found a pleasant table out on the pavement under an awning, and I ordered mussels simmered in cream and parsley, followed by stuffed shoulder of kid with a chestnut purée the way they serve it in Corsica . We were — fortunately — just demolishing the kid (which melted in your mouth), and were thinking in terms of some Dolcelatte cheese to be followed, perhaps, by some fresh fruit, when Ursula, looking over my shoulder, gave a gasp of horror. I looked round to see a very powerful, and exceedingly drunk gentleman approaching our table, tacking from side to side like a yacht.
“Oh, my God, it’s Reggie,” said Ursula. “How did he know they were in Venice ?”
“It’s all right, they’re not here,” I pointed out.
“But they will be in a minute,” wailed Ursula. “I’ve arranged to meet them and the Duke here. What shall I do? Quick, darling, think of something.”
Whether I liked it or not it seemed inevitable that I was going to get embroiled in this whole ridiculous saga. I took a deep draught of wine to steady myself and rose to my feet as Reggie, more by good luck than good management, arrived at our table.
“Reggle, darling,” cried Ursula, “what a lovely surprise. What are you doing in Venice ?”
“ ’Lo, Ursula,” said Reggie, swaying gently and having difficulty in focusing his eyes and enunciating with clarity, “amin Ven . . . Vennish to kill a dirty rat . . . a dirty loushy little rat, thass what I’m in Vennish for . . . thass what, see?”
Not only was Reggie a large man, built on the lines of an all-in wrestler, but he had a large pithecanthropic face with a straggling beard and moustache. He was partly bald and wore his hair at shoulder length. To add to this singularly unattractive appearance he was wearing a bright ginger, ill-fitting tweed suit, a scarlet roll-top pullover and sandals. Nevertheless, he did look quite capable of killing young Perry if he could get hold of him, and I began to give serious thought to the problem of luring him out of the restaurant before the other protagonists arrived.
“Reggie, darling, this is a friend of mine, Gerry Durrell,” said Ursula, breathlessly.
“Pleeshtermeetyer,” said Reggie, holding out a hand like a Bayonne ham and wringing mine in a vice-like grip.
“Do join us for a drink?” I suggested and Ursula gave me a warning look. I winked at her.
“Drink,” said Reggie throatily, leaning heavily on the table. “Thash what I want . . . a drink . . . sheveral big drinks . . . all in a big glash . . . hunereds and hunereds of drinks . . . I’ll have a double whishky and water.”
I got him a chair and he sat down heavily. I beckoned the waiter and ordered whisky.
“Do you think you ought to drink any more?” asked Ursula, unwisely. “It seems to me you’ve had rather a lot already, darling.”
“Are you surghesting I’m drunk?” asked Reggie ominously.
“No, no,” said Ursula, hastily, realizing her error. “I just thought perhaps another drink wouldn’t be a very good idea.”
“I,” said Reggie, pointing a finger the size of a banana at his chest so that we should be in no doubt as to whom he was referring, “I’m as jober as a sudge.”
The waiter arrived with the drink and placed it in front of Reggie.
“Drink, thash what I want,” said Reggie, lifting the glass somewhat unsteadily. “Here’s death to all miser . . . miserubbubble creeping little arish . . . arishtocratic pimps.”
He drained the glass and sat bath with a look of satisfaction on his face. “Lesh have another one,” he suggested cheerfully.
“Why don’t we toddle along to the Piazza San Marco and have another drink there?” I suggested smoothly.
“Ooo, yes, what a good idea,” chimed in Ursula.
“I’m not narrow minded,” said Reggie earnestly. “I don’ mind where I drink.”
“Right, San Marco it is,” I decided, beckoning the waiter for the bill.
Before he could bring it, however, we were (as Ursula would, no doubt, have put it) hit by a bolt from the blue. I heard her give a despairing squeak of alarm, and turned to find a tall, thin, rather aristocratic gentleman at my elbow, who looked not unlike a grey praying mantis in a Savile Row suit and shoes that had obviously been made for him at Lobb’s. In addition he was wearing an old Etonian tie, and had a triangle of Irish linen handkerchief, the size of a rabbit’s scut, peeping out of his breast pocket. He had silver grey hair, a silver grey face and a silver grey monocle in one silver grey eye. This, I decided, could only be the Duke of Tolpuddle.
“Ursula, my dear child, I am so sorry to be late, but my wretched vaporetto broke down. I do apologize,” he said, beaming at Reggie and me, exuding well-bred charm, secure in the knowledge that, with the blue blood that flowed in his veins, he would always be sure of a welcome, however late he was.
“Oh, oh . . . er . . . oh, don’t mention it,” said Ursula faintly.