Mad Hatter sc-4 Read online

  ‘No. I just see the girl and her brother. If they bring the young’un this way for a walk it’s no hardship for me to keep an eye on him while they enjoy themselves in the briny.’

  ‘Her brother, you say? Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Sure? Well, it’s obvious, ain’t it? He’s only a lad out there. Can’t you see through them things? I hope you ain’t suggesting I’d be a party to anything improper.’

  ‘Not at all. Not at all.’ But he had already put the glasses to his eyes to test the truth of her words.

  Now that he looked more closely at Bridget’s companion, he did perceive a certain boyish leanness in the physique. However, the antics in the spray looked most unlike the behaviour of brother and sister. Even as he watched, an arm crept around Bridget’s waist and another lifted her at the knees. She made a show of protesting, but allowed herself to be carried, with some difficulty, into the shallower water.

  ‘I don’t know what it is you’re being a party to, Ma’am,’ Moscrop told the bathing-machine woman, ‘but I’m not standing here to watch it any longer.’

  No question of it: the youth with Bridget in his arms was Guy Prothero.

  CHAPTER 5

  In the afternoon, Moscrop lay at full length on the shingle in front of the Grand Hotel, planning a criminal act. It began innocently enough, as an idle fancy of the sort everyone indulged in when lounging on a beach in the sun. The habit was universal; one arrived at the seafront and marched along the promenade, searching for the most secluded spot left on the beach. Having found it and enjoyed the sensations of sun and sea for a few minutes, one began looking to right and left and taking a mild interest in the neighbours one had sought so conscientiously to keep at a distance: the man who had removed his shoes and socks; the young woman with the bad-tempered dog; the couple complaining loudly about their hotel. As the day progressed it was natural enough to speculate on the kinds of lives such people led. How did a man like that behave in his own home; what monstrous lapses of decorum did his family have to endure? Whatever attracted a woman as pretty as she to a dog like that; did she have no friends at all? What class of hotel would satisfy those people; did they live to such exalted standards? It was a short step from that stage to the next: the occasion for contact. It arose from any trivial occurrence: the hat or parasol caught in a sudden gust and blown along the beach; the runaway terrier; the wasp-sting requiring instant attention from the blue-bag one had providently packed. From there the association prospered or perished, according to taste. But there was no denying that a public beach provided more scope for studying one’s fellow-beings and more opportunities for broadening one’s acquaintance than anywhere else except a hospital ward.

  To put the facts correctly, Moscrop’s neighbours on Brighton beach were not entirely unknown to him. In his case, there was no need for speculation about their identity: they were Mrs. Prothero, Guy, young Jason and Bridget. He had tracked them to this spot with the tenacity of a border scout, even suffering himself to lunch on cockles from a stall below the pier, while Guy, Bridget and the child took lunch from a hamper. Mrs. Prothero had joined them here soon after two; the Doctor was not with her. And now Moscrop lay some thirty yards to their rear, flouting the principles on which he had based the whole of his researches.

  He despised himself for it. Even the act of lying here, trying not to jump like a grasshopper each time one of them moved, was a surrender. Observation held no joys now; it was a furtive, skulking business, undignified by any connection with scientific practice. He had no choice, though. He had ceased to be a scientist the moment the white hat had danced across his lens. The last two days with his instruments had convinced him of that. Binocular-work for its own sake was now a barren occupation.

  Strange how each discovery about the members of the family, however odious, had nourished his curiosity about Mrs. Prothero. She sat half-turned away from him now, flanked by Guy and Bridget, leaning her back against an upturned fishing-smack. Down at the water, a small pleasure-boat was taking on passengers and she was watching it, amused at the efforts of the ladies not to overbalance on the narrow plank bridging the foam. The hat, the same hat, responded to the tremors of her body, as she tried not to giggle openly. One unexpected sea breeze was all that was wanted to lift it off her head for him to retrieve. One small gust between himself and an introduction.

  He was not prepared to wait for it. Why, he might still be there in suspense at the end of the afternoon, when they got up to leave. It was no use waiting for an act of God, like that; better, surely, to improvise your own.

  He looked around him. The situation was promising. Few people had chosen to sit as high up the beach as he. A couple to his right were totally absorbed in each other. Several of an older generation were dozing in the sunshine. The bathing-machines to the rear were unoccupied.

  The pleasure-boat filled up and cast off. Mrs. Prothero returned to a novel she was reading. Guy was aiming pebbles into Jason’s tin bucket, mounted on a heap of stones ahead of him. Bridget was knitting. The child was quite content to circle the boat, one small hand on the upturned hull to assist its balance. From the right, a minstrel band was progressing up the beach with banjo, bones and harmonium.

  With the casual air of a practised criminal, Moscrop got to his feet, walked to within fifteen yards of the boat and sat down again. This was one occasion when he could have done without his bag, but he was not to have known that earlier. He opened it and looked inside. It might have its uses, even so. He took out the Negretti and Zambra.

  Young Jason was completing his fourth or fifth wobbly cir-cumambulation of the boat. As he toddled round the prow, out of sight of his family, his attention was diverted by a sudden snapping sound. Moscrop had pulled the telescope open to its full extent and then closed it. The child paused. Moscrop smiled, and repeated the action. Farther down the beach, the black-faced minstrels were catching everyone’s eye.

  He held out the telescope. It flashed in the sunlight. Jason left the support of the boat and started towards it. One of the black-faced singers was approaching Mrs. Prothero with hat extended, jingling the coins inside. Behind her, Jason reached out for the telescope. Moscrop smiled, pulled it open, snapped it shut, stood up, and started walking slowly off the beach, dangling the instrument tantalisingly in his right hand. Jason paused, glanced momentarily behind him, and then started after the new toy. The minstrels were ranged in front of Mrs. Prothero, serenading her.

  Behind the bathing-machines, he replaced the telescope in his Gladstone bag, pausing as if undecided whether to leave the beach. A second later, a small, flaxen-curled infant came round the side. Moscrop bent down. ‘Hello, hello, little man. And where would you be going? To buy some barley sugar, no doubt. We’ll go that way together.’ When Jason looked doubtful about the proposition, the telescope was miraculously planted in his hands. Moscrop held one end and Jason the other. The sweet-shop was one of a row built into the arches under the promenade. The others sold fresh fish, fruit and baskets coated with shells. There was a wooden seat just within the arch, out of sight of the beach. He helped Jason on to it and gave him a stick of barley sugar.

  The abduction-or, rather, enticement-lasted about fifteen minutes, by which time the barley sugar had rolled under the seat, the telescope, coated with sticky fingerprints, was replaced in the bag and Jason was bawling more loudly than the fishwife next door. Moscrop purchased a stick of liquorice, which might conceivably have resembled a telescope, offered it, had it rejected, stuffed it in his pocket, snatched up child and bag and started back across the pebbles towards the upturned boat.

  Bridget was standing alone, biting her fingernails in anguish. When she saw Moscrop approaching, she stumbled across the shingle to meet him. ‘Oh sir, you’ve brought him back to me safe! Let me take him. Mistress is out of her mind with worry. She’s down by the water there, looking for him. We thought he was drowned, for sure!’

  ‘I recognised you from Saturday afternoon,’ he explain
ed, to make his sudden arrival quite clear.

  ‘Why, of course! The gentleman who helped me up the stairs! Oh, Mistress will be so grateful. We must wave to her.’

  They waved. Mrs. Prothero saw them, clutched her hand to her forehead and waved back. It was one of the finest moments of Moscrop’s life.

  ‘I don’t know how we should have told the master,’ said Bridget. ‘Guy went off-Master Guy, that is-to see if them black-faced men had kidnapped him.’

  Mrs. Prothero was coming quickly up the beach. Moscrop took the liquorice from his pocket, pushed it into Jason’s hand and curled the little fingers firmly over it. ‘We passed a sweet-shop,’ he explained to Bridget with a shy smile.

  ‘How very kind! Oh, Mrs. Prothero, Ma’am, there you are. This gentleman has brought Jason back safe, with not one curl of his little head harmed, and bought him sweets as well!’

  ‘Albert Moscrop, Ma’am. It was nothing at all.’

  ‘Nothing?’ She stood a yard from him, fixing him unexpectedly with a ferocious pout from under the hat. ‘You can’t mean it. Jason Prothero lost without trace, his Ma in a state of advanced hysteria, the beach about to be turned over stone by stone and you arrive from nowhere with the child in your arms and describe it as nothing! He’s a wilful little beast, I grant you. Call him what you like, my dear, but don’t hand him back to his demented mother like a dropped handkerchief.’

  Her voice was pitched low, the words exquisitely mouthed, and all the more devastating for that.

  He fumbled for a response. ‘On the contrary, Ma’am. A beautiful child. I. . s›. . !s›. . !s›.’

  ‘Good God!’ she said. ‘I’ve offended the man. I’m the most tactless woman alive, Mr. . Mr. . s›. . !s›. . !s›.’

  ‘Moscrop, Ma’am.’

  ‘A name to remember. Understand that I’m most awfully grateful. Words cannot suffice. I was on the brink of despair. A desperate woman, Mr. . what did you say it was, darling?’

  ‘Moscrop.’ This was so unlike the scene he had visualised. He groped back to his prepared speech. ‘It was providential that I recognised your servant, Ma’am. I gave her a helping hand when she was trying to negotiate the Aquarium steps with a pram the other afternoon. If I hadn’t seen her just now, I’d have taken the little fellow to the police station. The law takes its time, I believe. You might have presumed the worst by now.’

  ‘Darling,’ (she used the endearment in a way that made him feel on a par with Jason), ‘as far as I was concerned he was already food for the fishes. Where on earth did you find the brat?’

  ‘You see the groyne up there towards the pier?’

  ‘God, he didn’t get that far?’

  ‘I found him taking a walk along the top, Ma’am. He must have climbed up where the stones are heaped against it, near the water’s edge.’

  ‘On the top! Suppose he had fallen!’

  ‘He might have escaped with a bruise or two on this side, Ma’am, but if he’d fallen the other way there’s a ten foot drop. At the point where I caught up with him, that is.’

  She cradled Jason to her bosom, reckless of liquorice stains. ‘You saved his life, by Heaven! You saved my son’s life. The gentleman’s a hero, Bridget, a saint, and you, my girl, are the other thing. What were you doing to let my child wander off and all but kill himself? Dr. Prothero shall hear of this. Go and find Guy this minute and tell him what has happened. Then return with him at once.’

  A film of tears spread over Bridget’s eyes. She turned and stumbled along the stones in the direction the minstrels had taken. Moscrop felt a pang of sympathy for the girl, which quite dispersed when he realised her departure left him alone with Mrs. Prothero. Except, of course for Jason.

  ‘Shall we sit down a moment, Mr. Moscrop?’ The voice had a carriage-wheel quality, a rich, grating resonance that made the most simple suggestion sound like an invitation to unexampled intimacies. ‘You must wait and meet my stepson. But I have the advantage of you. My name is Prothero. Zena Prothero.’

  She held out her gloved hand. Oh the contact! The touch of her palm through the lace snuffed out a lifetime’s devotion to optical research. From that moment the bagful of instruments at his feet was obsolete.

  She lowered herself confidently to the stones and arranged her dress. Moscrop stood by uncertainly. Much as he desired it, he could not openly sit beside her with his back against the boat. It was, after all, a public beach. He compromised by removing the telescope from his bag, crouching to give it to Jason and then remaining in that position.

  Heavens, yes, peering through a lens couldn’t be compared to this. Now that he had seen her at close quarters, heard her speak, actually touched her, he realised how different she was from all other women. Conversing with her was not easy; she said such unpredictable things, quite unlike the things he was used to women saying, all those women he had observed by the hour at the fashionable south coast resorts. Well to be quite accurate about it he had not been near enough to overhear any of their conversations, but he knew how they talked, the tones of their voices, the silly, trivial, engaging things they said. It never varied, from Torquay to Broadstairs. From the narrow end of a pair of binoculars, they all talked and behaved exactly like his sister Maud; so had Zena Prothero, until this confrontation.

  ‘Are you a resident of Brighton, Ma’am?’

  ‘No, my dear, more’s the pity. Gregory has a practice in Dorking, and we’ve escaped for three weeks. We are staying at the Albemarle. Comfortable, but monstrously expensive.

  You are here for the season, I expect.’

  ‘Just three weeks, like you,’ said Moscrop. ‘I’m one of those deplorable individuals who cannot bear to be away from their business for more than the minimum. It betrays a lack of confidence, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh skittles, darling! You’re conscientious, like Prothero. He’s a doctor-did I tell you? Do you know that he has already given up four or five days of his holiday to visit former patients, retired people who moved here for reasons of health?’

  He tried to appear impressed, but he could not forget the red-headed equestrienne. She had looked some way short of retirement. ‘Admirable, Ma’am. I’ve always held that it’s a capital doctor who still takes an interest in a former patient. There’ll be plenty for him to visit here, I’m sure. It’s a favourite spot for the convalescent, I’ve heard, what with its ozone and its chalybeate water.’

  ‘He’s visiting a poor old soul in Rottingdean this very afternoon, dear. Otherwise he’d be here with us. There’s dedication for you! Between ourselves, though, he doesn’t care very much for the seashore. He rather disapproves when I bring the children on the beach. It’s not the thing in the season, is it? I find the sea irresistible, though. There, that’s my lower class origins revealed! Now I can see from the way you’re crouching that you aren’t in your element, darling.’

  ‘Oh, on the contrary, I. . s›. . !s›. . !s›.’

  ‘Sit on the stones, my dear. Give your legs a rest. The shingle’s cleaner than you think. Now tell me all about Jason’s misadventure. Where were you when you spotted him-on the prom?’

  ‘Oh. That is-er-yes.’ The conversation was drifting into dangerous straits. ‘May I ask you a question, Mrs. Prothero?’

  ‘Anything you like, my dear-provided Prothero wouldn’t disapprove.’

  Heavens! What did she expect? ‘Do you always favour this part of the beach?’

  She laughed for no evident reason. ‘Why yes. It is altogether convenient. Guy likes to bathe from the machines near the pier there, Jason has his Punch and Judy show and I adore watching the excursion-yachts. Ah, Bridget has found Guy-the only useful thing that madam has done today.’ She waved to her stepson. He had come by way of the sand at the water’s edge, for ease of walking. Bridget trotted after him superfluously.

  ‘A fine-looking lad. There’s an upright look about him,’ said Moscrop, as though he meant it.

  ‘D’you think so, darling?’ (he fervidly hoped she would dr
op the endearment when Guy joined them). ‘He is not the easiest boy in the world to manage. It must be beastly for him to have to accept me as his stepmother.’

  The cue for a compliment. ‘Quite the contrary, Ma’am. He could not possibly find anyone more acceptable. His difficulty, I suggest, is that you are far too chic to be thought of in a maternal capacity.’

  Guy approached with hand extended. Not before Moscrop had seen Zena Prothero blush. Such timing! He stood to meet the boy with the casual air of Irving after some brilliantly-delivered line on the stage of the Lyceum.

  ‘Guy Prothero. I understand you saved my stepbrother’s life, sir.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. Simply returned him to his mother.’

  ‘We’re grateful, even so. Give me your card and I’ll inform my father. He’ll wish to show his appreciation. D’you smoke cigars?’

  Damned impudence! ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He addressed himself to Zena: ‘Now that your stepson has returned, I’ll take my leave, Ma’am. If I might just recover the telescope from young Jason. . s›. . !s›. . !s›.’

  She had given Guy a thunderous look. ‘You can’t leave like this. I shan’t allow it. You must have dinner with us at the very least. Where are you staying, Mr. Moscrop?’

  He touched his bowler in as decisive a parting gesture as he could devise. ‘Most generous of you, Mrs. Prothero, but I really couldn’t put you to so much trouble. Your husband is a busy man-‘ ‘Fudge! If he’s too busy to meet the hero who saved his son’s life, I want to know the reason why!’

  Guy said something in an aside to Bridget.

  ‘What was that?’ demanded Mrs. Prothero.

  ‘We should leave it to Father to make the arrangements. Do you carry cards, Mr. . ? But perhaps your name is published in the Fashionable Visitors’ List?‘ The note of sarcasm was blatantly calculated to insult.