The first would make a fool of him, the second a thief, the third impossible, the fourth a trickster; the fifth might bring him to a bad end. This was what had come of his nosing round for power. Scylla would be coming in, burnt with kisses. Perhaps she had played off this trick on him. How many years had he been living in this Chinese box of tricks? If he could have believed in their belief of the possibility of a possible sanctity, gone down to them and said: “Here is something that may be precious,” he would have walked into their hearts. But that would not have served him, because he did not want their hearts. Did not want hearts. Wanted scalps.
On a final sweep of rage he went downstairs with a cup in his hands to Felix and Clarence and Ross. He said: “Here’s your cup. I should like to know which of you played this off on me. I should like to know who put it in my room.”
“Oopsey daisy,” said Felix.
“If that’s your notion of hospitality, it doesn’t coincide with mine.”
Clarence said: “If you don’t like us, what d’you come down here for?”
“What we mean, is,” said Ross, “that we don’t understand why you should think such a thing.”
“Are you trying it out on me that the thing got there by itself, and that none of you knew?” Felix said:
“If we had known, why should we have spent a morning perspiring over it?”
Carston cried at him:
“I’d not put it past you. The day I turn my back on you all will be the best I’ve spent. I can tell people then what I think of you.”
Felix answered: “And we might as well tell the world that your thirst for antiquities led you to steal a family chalice. Nice kind of mind you’ve got. You know none of us put it in your room.” That was what he did not know. What he could not have done, others could do. There was a stupid, broken pause. Then he said, who had had time to think:
“I suppose the alliance between Miss Taverner and Mr. Tracy explains it.”
“What alliance explains what?”
Carston looked at the brother; felt like a man pulling up blinds.
“Love made them mischievous, I suppose.”
“What love?”
Warm, sunburnt, they came in. They were in the room, leaning on their ashplants, serene, apart. After a silence, “What’s wrong?” said Scylla.
“The cup’s turned up,” said Ross, “in Carston’s bedroom. Did either of you put it there?”
Knowing Picus behind her, she laughed. Lovers’ jokes are sacred, pleasantries of a man who discovers the sea-wood, the rock soft with birds, the meeting of pure water and salt. Come down out of that to enchant and rule her equals.
“Count us out,” she said. “What’s biting you, Carston?”
If she had shewn a little decent concern it might have recalled him. But he went on:
“Then I suppose your friend did it. Not content with keeping me awake all night.”
They stared at him. Clarence was practically invisible with frightful emotion.
“Put what where?” said Picus, laughing.
“Four mysteries,” said Carston, “since I got here. First, you found that thing. Then Tracy vanished, after leading us a dance in an infernal prairie. Then the thing vanished. Then it’s found in my room. I’m waiting your explanations. I’ve gotten my own.”
“Let’s hear ’em,” said Ross.
Scylla spoke: “It is my cup. My lover who gave it me. We who have enjoyed it. Carston can think what he likes. I did not put it in his room. It is he who will not play. If he wants to find out what has happened, he will find out. We will tell him when we know. Which we don’t at present. Don’t be a fool, man. No one has tried to trick you here.”
All fairly true, but Picus had done something. Just a little devilry. Her heart caught at a beat, she tasted something in her mouth, salt like pain. Pain so soon after. Other side of the halfpenny. She sneered and sat down, tapping the bright boards with her stick.
Carston felt disintegrating, sticky, a loser, afraid. Still standing, he stared out at the wood, at the ilex-limb, each leaf a white-fire flame. He became aware of all the noises of the wood, that it was cackling all the time, a frightful old long gossip about dirt and the dead ends of lies. His subtle brain raced on, took a glorious chance. He said:
“I can tell you something then. Tracy has a book up in his room. On somebody’s collection of early church ornaments. He brought the cup down from London to work this off on you all. You remember how he stunted his ignorance? Just a little game to make you think something of yourselves and let you down. You may like being kidded. I don’t. I reckon I’ve done you a service—”
“Bright idea,” said Felix. “True, Picus?” He flew at them, with the menaces of a bird.
“What d’you mean? Scylla’s been talking. You are all a pack of old women intriguing against me. Making my life hell. Like Carston, I’m sick of your hospitality. Especially when it includes him.”
“
“Yes, a decent vendetta would be better than your poisoned fun.”
“We don’t seem to have cleaned up anything,” said Clarence.
