“I shall,” he murmured gustily, “just say a few words.”
They were actually few, but as usual they were intensely embarrassing. Her reluctance to undertake the portrait was playfully outlined. His own pleasure in the sittings was remorselessly sketched. Some rather naïve quotations on art from Timon of Athens were introduced, and then: “But I must not tantalise my audience any longer,” said Sir Henry richly. “Curtain, my boy. Curtain!”
The house lights went down: the front drop slid upwards. Simultaneously four powerful floodlamps poured down their beams from the flies. The scarlet tabs were drawn apart, and there, in a blaze of highly unsuitable light, the portrait was revealed.
Above the sombre head and flying against a clear patch of night sky, somebody had painted an emerald green cow with vermilion wings. It was in the act of secreting an object that might or might not have been a black bomb.
CHAPTER VIII
Big Exit
i
This time Troy felt only a momentary sensation of panic. That particular area of background was hard-dry, and almost at once she remembered this circumstance. She did, however, feel overwhelmingly irritated. Above the automatic burst of applause that greeted the unveiling and only petered out when the detail of the flying cow was observed, she heard her own voice saying loudly: “No, really, this is too much.”
At the same moment Cedric, who had evidently operated the curtains, stuck his head round the proscenium, stared blindly into the front of the house, turned, saw the portrait, clapped his hand over his mouth and ejaculated: “Oh, God! Oh, Dynamite!”
“Darling!” said his mother from the back row. “Ceddie, dear? What’s the matter?”
Sir Henry, on Troy’s left, breathed stertorously, and contrived to let out a sort of hoarse roaring noise.
“It’s all right,” said Troy. “Please don’t say anything. Wait.”
She strode furiously down the aisle and up the steps. Sacrificing her best evening handkerchief, she reduced the cow to a green smear. “I think there’s a bottle of turpentine somewhere,” she said loudly. “Please give it to me.”
Paul ran up with it, offering his own handkerchief. Cedric flew out with a handful of rag. The blemish was removed. Meantime the auditorium rang with Miss Orrincourt’s hysterical laughter and buzzed with the sound of bewildered Ancreds. Troy threw the handkerchief and rag into the wings, and, with hot cheeks, returned to her seat. “I wouldn’t have been so cross,” she thought grimly, “if the damn thing hadn’t looked so funny.”
“I demand,” Sir Henry was shouting, “I demand to know the author of this outrage.”
He was answered by a minor uproar topped by Pauline: “It was was not Panty. I tell you, Millamant, once and for all, that Panty is in bed, and has been there since five o’clock. Papa, I protest. It was not Panty.”
“Nuts!” said Miss Orrincourt. “She’s been painting green cows for days. I’ve seen them. Come off it, dear.”
“Papa, I give you my solemn word——”
“Mother, wait a minute—”
“I shall not wait a second. Papa, I have reason to believe—”
“Look here, do wait,” Troy shouted, and at once they were silent. “It’s gone,” she said, “No harm’s been done. But there’s one thing I must tell you. Just before dinner I came in here. I was worrying about the red curtains. I thought they might touch the canvas where it’s still wet. It was all right then. If Panty’s been in bed and is known to have been there since ten to nine, she didn’t do it.”
Pauline instantly began to babble. “Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Alleyn. You hear that, Papa. Send for Miss Able. I insist that Miss Able be sent for. My child shall be vindicated.”
“I’ll go and ask Caroline,” said Thomas unexpectedly. “One doesn’t send for Caroline, you know. I’ll go and ask.”
He went out. The Ancreds were silent. Suddenly Millamant remarked: “I thought perhaps it was just the modern style. What do they call it? Surrealism?”
“Milly!” screamed her son.
Jenetta Ancred said: “What particular symbolism, Milly, did you read into the introduction of a flying cow behaving like a rude seagull over Papa’s head?”
“You never know,” Millamant said, “in these days,” and laughed uncertainly.
“Papa,” said Desdemona, who had been bending over him, “is dreadfully upset. Papa, dearest, may I suggest—”
“I’m going to bed,” said Sir Henry. “I am indeed upset. I am unwell. I am going to bed.”
They all rose. He checked them with a gesture. “I am going alone,” he said, “to bed.”
Cedric ran to the door. Sir Henry, without a backward glance, walked down the aisle, a shadowy figure looking larger than life against the glowing stage, and passing magnificently from the theatre.
The Ancreds at once began to chatter. Troy felt that she couldn’t endure the inevitable revival of Panty’s former misdemeanours, Pauline’s indignant denials, Cedric’s giggles, Millamant’s stolid recital of the obvious. She was profoundly relieved when Thomas, slightly ruffled, returned with Caroline Able.
“I’ve asked Caroline to come,” he said, “because I thought you mightn’t exactly believe me. Panty’s been in the sick-bay with all the other ringworms. Dr. Withers wanted them to be kept under observation because of the medicine he’s given them, so Caroline has been sitting there reading since half-past seven. So Panty, you see, didn’t do it.”
“Certainly she didn’t do it,” said Miss Able brightly. “How could she? It’s quite impossible.”
“So you see,” Thomas added mildly.
ii
Troy stayed behind in the little theatre with Paul and Fenella. Paul switched on the working lights, and together they examined Troy’s painting gear, which had been stacked away behind the wings.
The paint-box had been opened. A dollop of Emerald Oxide of Chromium and one of Ivory Black had been squeezed out on the protective under-lid that separated the paints from a compartment designed to hold sketching-boards. A large brush had been used, and had been dipped first in the green and then in the black.
“You know,” said Paul, “this brush ought to have finger-prints on it.” He looked rather shyly at Troy. “Oughtn’t it?” he added.
“Well, I suppose Roderick would say so,” she agreed.
“I mean, if it has and if we could get everybody’s to compare, that would be pretty conclusive, wouldn’t it? What’s more, it’d be damned interesting.”
“Yes, but I’ve a notion finger-prints are not as easy as all that.”
“I know. The hand would move about and so on. But look! There is some green paint smeared up the handle. I’ve read about it. Suppose we asked them to let us take their prints. They couldn’t very well refuse.”
“Oh, Paul, let’s!” cried Fenella.
“What do you think, Mrs. Alleyn?”
“My dear chap, you mustn’t imagine I know anything about it. But I agree it would be interesting. I do know more or less how they take official prints.”
“I’ve read it up quite a bit,” said Paul. “I say. Suppose we did get them to do it, and suppose we kept the brush and the box intact — well — well, would — do you think—?”
“I’d show them to him like a shot,” said Troy.
“I say, that’s perfectly splendid,” said Paul. “Look here, I’ll damn well put it to them in the morning. It ought to be cleared up. It’s all bloody rum, the whole show, isn’t it? What d’you say, Mrs. Alleyn?”