Mr Chubb gestured impatiently. He, too, had been finding the presence of the London journalists an abrasive impurity in the stream of Flaxborough life. But almost immediately he mustered a things-could-be-worse smile for his inspector’s benefit.
“Look at it this way, Mr Purbright,” he said. “We all are well aware that a duel is illegal. But what about half a duel? The law says nothing about that. And as long as this London newspaper fellow treats poor old Hockley’s challenge as a bit of nonsense and doesn’t do anything mad, such as turning up with a pistol or a sword himself, I really cannot see that there is any call for us to get involved.”
“Just as you say, sir.” Purbright turned to leave.
For several minutes, Mr Chubb remained standing by the fire-place in his office, that vantage point from which he customarily listened to the representations of his officers, rather in the manner of a Roman patrician, poised against a pillar. On this occasion, though, he was less than happy with the interview’s outcome, despite understandable pride in his spontaneous production of the “half a duel” concept. For if there was one thing calculated to disturb the chief constable more than another, it was prompt and unqualified agreement with one of his opinions by Inspector Purbright. Something, Mr Chubb felt, was going to happen. Something against sharing responsibility for which he had failed adequately to insure himself. Something pretty awful.
Chapter Nine
The film that was receiving what Kelvin Prile sardonically termed its Flaxborough premiere was entitled, according to Mr Suffri, Within the Bedchambers of British Persons of High Connection. How he contrived so elaborate a translation of the small serpentine cypher on the lids of the containers, no one else present was sufficiently knowledgeable to question, but Sir Arthur Heckington subjected the interpreter to one of his most challenging courtroom scowls without causing him to amend a single syllable.
The barrister, whose interview with Becket had been of no more than eighty or ninety guineas’ duration, readily accepted Grail’s invitation to watch the film. There was, after all, nothing else to do before dinner, which he preferred to take late. Moreover, he sensed a certain anxiety in the party. Splendid. Sir Arthur liked anxiety, particularly in publishing circles. Nothing on earth was more lucrative than a leading brief for the defence of a newspaper in a libel case.
“Bit near the knuckle, Grail, eh?” he inquired jocularly as the company settled into its assortment of chairs to face the screen. He sounded almost indecendy sanguine.
Becket was projectionist. In the less familiar role of sound engineer, he had encountered some difficulties but these—associated mainly, he said, with the fact that the voices had been superimposed in what he took to be Arabic—were now overcome.
Close beside him sat Mr Suffri. His instructions were to provide, as well as he was able, a simultaneous rendering of the soundtrack into English. If Mr Suffri’s unquenchable smile was anything to go by, smooth achievement was assured.
Grail and the barrister were flanked by Mr Kebble and Birdie Clemenceaux. Birdie, to Mr Kebble’s surprise, was wearing spectacles for the occasion; they imparted an alert and businesslike quality that he had not seen before.
In the front of the group sat Lanching, Marr-Newton and Prile. Prile’s presence had been counselled by Kebble, who said that he himself could claim only a few months’ close acquaintance with Flaxborough society. Prile, on the other hand, had been on the staff of the Citizen since shortly after the death of Marcus Gwill, its one-time proprietor of notorious memory, and there was not a face in the town which the chief reporter could not identify. (“Give him a stool, not a comfortable chair,” Mr Kebble had thought fit to add confidentially, but without explicit reference to Mr Prile’s remarkable propensity for going into trance.)
On a signal from Becket, Lanching reached across to the wall and switched off the light. In contrast, the succeeding gloom seemed absolute. Silence, too, was complete for some seconds. Then somebody booed, facetiously; it was generally thought to be Prile, who had not come along with very good grace. “We want our money back,” Birdie called out. Secretly listening outside the door, Mrs Patmore curled a lip derisively. Them and their mucky pictures: like a lot of kids.
At last the projector whirred suddenly into action and the screen became a rectangle of pulsing white light. There arose a smattering of ironic applause. The white rectangle acquired a decorative border of complicated geometric designs. Within this border, a couple of lines of script appeared. The voice of Mr Suffri, loud and very pleased with itself, was heard in the land.
“If you are prepared, everybody, adventure one, the Warm Encounter of a Sea-going Gentleman!”
The first scene appeared on the screen. It seemed to be of a maritime nature: a quayside, perhaps, or part of a foreshore. There certainly was a ship of some kind in the distance. The camera closed in upon two figures. One was a woman. She appeared to be wearing a dressing-gown. Her companion, who wore naval uniform, looked younger, although he had a substantial moustache. A voice, speaking a language unintelligible to everyone present but Mr Suffri and, questionably, Marr-Newton, emerged from the amplifier. Within seconds, it was being accompanied by the joyous tones of the interpreter, determined to reduce translation lag to zero.
“It is being expounded here,” shouted Mr Suffri, “that the gentleman before us is a British navy officer of high family who departs upon a battleship to seize oil wells without success. The lady is his lady and she is related to the Earl of somewhere my ear fails to determine.”
Prile had turned round and was whispering to Mr Kebble, who seemed much intrigued by whatever the chief reporter had imparted to him.
The explanatory voice ceased. There followed a development so odd that most of the audience supposed something to have gone wrong with the sound track.
The characters on the screen now presented the appearance of speaking to each other very slowly indeed, while making the most extravagant gestures. And yet their voices chatted on in a conversational world of their own. Birdie caught Grail’s eye and grimaced her unbelief.
Mr Suffri, utterly indifferent, it seemed, to such discrepancies, enthusiastically pursued his role.
“The lady say the gent is resembling to a horse...ah...yes, a horse for fights. A fight horse, you know? And the gent makes answer he is burning with conflict. And now something I regret I must not translate, but it is most shocking for polite people you understand. And there is more of like nature. A moment, please. Ah...Ah, yes. I can maybe translate that one. He say he cannot wait to take ownership of her uncompared orbs (it is her chest is indicated, I do not have to tell you). And she replies, all, all, have it all, this day the manservant and maidservant at my hubby’s hall are granted leave, come you marauding steed.”
The scene changed. In the background now was the façade of the Oddfellows Hall, Flaxborough. A group of a dozen or so people stood facing the camera. They appeared cheerful and imbued with a sense of occasion. In the centre of the group, the two characters from the previous scene held hands and posed and giggled a good deal. She had exchanged her dressing gown for skirt and cardigan. He had jettisoned his moustache, but was still wearing the uniform jacket.