Lucia and the Diplomatic Incident: A Short Story based on the Novels of E.F. Benson (Tom Holt's Mapp and Lucia Series Book 3) Read online

  LUCIA

  and the

  DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT

  Tom Holt

  Seattle, WA

  Coffeetown Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com

  tomholt.coffeetownpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Lucia and the Diplomatic Incident

  Copyright © 2013 by Tom Holt

  Original Copyright © Tom Holt 1997

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-203-0 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  Lucia and the Diplomatic Incident

  As Miss Mapp left the station and walked slowly up the slight rise into town, her step seemed to lack some of its usual vitality, and an informed observer might have concluded that she had recently passed through some kind of disagreeable experience. Fortunately, at a quarter to six on a Monday morning, even the windows of Tilling were still curtained in slumber, and Miss Mapp, making slow and deliberate progress like the vanguard of a defeated army, reached her front door without observation or untimely encounter. She put her hand out to ring the bell; then, apparently thinking better of it, fumbled in her pocket for her latchkey and let herself in.

  Nevertheless, despite the muted nature of her return, Tilling sensed her presence much as the earth feels the quickening of spring. At half past ten the fishmonger’s boy, riding past Mallards, heard the sound of a voice raised in vigorous and forthright speech. By eleven, the shoppers in the High Street were tending to drift towards the stationers’ in search of ink and envelopes they had not anticipated purchasing, their eyes tending to turn towards the bend of West Street and the corner behind which Mallards lay obscured. By a quarter past, they were becoming impatient.

  “I don’t believe she’s come back at all,” sighed Georgie Pillson, contemplating the small box of drawing pins he had felt honour-bound to buy. “I expect Hopkins’ boy heard the scullery-maid singing and mistook it for…”

  Quaint Irene Coles interrupted him with a snort of laughter. “I shall tell her you said that,” she said. “She’ll be fascinated to learn that’s who you think she sounds like.” She knocked out her pipe on the heel of her shoe and refilled it carefully. “But she’s back. You can feel it in the air, like approaching thunder.”

  Georgie frowned; faintly appalled at the thought that Quaint Irene was perfectly capable of saying such a dreadful thing in the name of honest reporting. “And I don’t suppose she’d be all that pleased to be compared to a thunderstorm,” he replied sourly. “Though of course I should never dream of telling her such a thing.”

  “Oh, you can if you like,” Irene said cheerfully. “And I should say it’s a compliment, if anything. In fact, the image is rather appealing, don’t you think? I can just see her as one of those splendid allegorical ladies on the ceiling of some great chapel, surging down from the heavens on the wings of a storm, like divine retribution. In fact, I might have a stab at something of the sort myself.”

  Although he said nothing, Georgie winced a little at the thought of the monster his words might unwittingly have begotten. Fortuitously, the arrival of Lucia suspended all current topics of conversation, as the assembly waited with keen anticipation to see how she was taking the news of Miss Mapp’s return.

  It would have been unkind, as well as inaccurate, to have referred to Lucia’s behaviour during her dear friend’s absence in terms of the doggerel about absent cats and festive mice. Nevertheless, it could not be denied that somehow, by whatever agency, the delicate astronomy of Tilling had altered perceptibly over the last few weeks; orbits had shifted, planets had taken up new attitudes and aspects, with the inevitable changes in calendar and climate that attend such alterations. These shifts of the celestial pattern had not gone unnoticed or uncommented upon; Diva Plaistow had openly speculated about what Elizabeth would say when she found out about Lucia’s newly-inaugurated watercolour group, and even Mr Wyse had made cryptic references to such themes as the restoration of King Charles II and the return of Ulysses from the Trojan war. As for Lucia herself, she had said nothing and affected not to understand what all the fuss was about; her official position was that she could hardly wait for dear Elizabeth to come home and resume her vital role in the life of the commonwealth, Nonetheless, as she walked briskly down the High Street with her basket swinging from her hand there was evidence of haste in the colour of her face and the state of her shoes, and it occurred to several bystanders that it was ironic that she who ought to have been the first to know lived furthest away.

  “Here you all are!” she announced, her breath a trifle ragged. “I was beginning to wonder if the town was deserted. Such a pleasant morning. I suddenly realised as I sat down to write some letters that there wasn’t a single envelope in the house.”

  Diva Plaistow, who had bought a packet of entirely superfluous envelopes (the cheaper sort, with the sickly-tasting gum that always made her think of liquorice, which she couldn’t abide) dropped the incriminating purchases into her basket and covered them with a cauliflower, but not quickly enough. “You too, Diva dear,” Lucia said pleasantly. “Quite a rush on the markets this morning. I hope you’ve left some for me.”

  Irene, who scorned subterfuge and so hadn’t bought anything, indicated the corner of West Street with the stem of her pipe. “She’s back,” she said, “and we’re all waiting for her to come out. Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted, as Major Benjy would say. Where is he, by the way? I’d have expected to see him here by now.”

  Lucia’s face clouded for a moment, as she wondered who on earth Irene could mean was back; then she smiled. “What wonderful news,” she said, “and so unexpected, too. If I have time later on, I must pop round and say hello. And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I must buy my envelopes and scurry home before I miss the second post.” She entered the shop; and the assembly, which had parted before her like the waves of the Red Sea, resumed the sundry vantage-points and continued a desultory conversation. Before long, their patience was at last rewarded, as Elizabeth herself rounded the corner of West Street escorted by the courtly figure of Major Flint. There was a fleeting moment of silence. The perceptive Mr Wyse had to stifle a faint gasp of surprise, and even Irene, who had been rehearsing some dreadful barb of pre-emptive quaintness against the encounter, forbore the advantage and held her peace. “If thou be he, bit oh, how fallen, how changed,” declaims the poet of the fallen Lucifer, and the change in Miss Mapp was no less dramatic and no less patent. Her walk was slow and almost painful, her face betrayed a quite fascinating pallor, and in her smile as she greeted the assembly there was a mixture of ordeals overcome and dauntless courage that excited the most ardent curiosity. Nevertheless, when she spoke her voice was cheerful, if subdued, and the warmth of her greeting was clearly unforced.

  “Oh, so many dear friends!” she exclaimed, “how wonderful to see you all again!” A pause and a lightning dab of a handkerchief-corner to a treacherous eye spoke eloquently o
f some great relief, as if for some reason she had despaired of ever seeing them again this side of Redemption. So affecting was the spectacle that nobody seemed able to find the words to reply, until Diva broke the silence with, “Hello, Elizabeth. Lovely to see you again. You’re looking a bit peaky, dear.”

  There are times when the ill-considered word is its own punishment, and no sooner had Diva said the word than she regretted it. “Peaky” was not an apt description, just as the fall of Icarus cannot be dismissed as easily as a collision between two slow moving bicycles. Elizabeth did the only possible thing and pretended not to have heard. It was left to Mr Wyse to restore matters as best he could. He inclined his head in a stately bow and enquired politely, “How delightful to have you with us once more, Miss Mapp. And how did you find our dear Venice?” He made it sound as if he were enquiring after the health of some invalid relative, and the tone of the question seemed more appropriate to Miss Mapp herself. Behind her, Major Benjy shuffled his feet, as if to suggest that the patient wasn’t yet strong enough to receive importunate visitors; but Elizabeth favoured Mr Wyse with a wan smile.

  “Ah,” she said, “the dear Serenissima! Such a sense of desolation, to be parted from her so quickly. And yet,” she added, after a measured pause, “so delightful to be back and among you all again.”

  She broke off, clearly troubled by some strong emotion; and at that moment Lucia emerged from the stationer’s holding a small box of pencils. Their eyes met briefly. Lucia’s eyebrow flickered, while in Elizabeth’s pale face there might have been just a momentary trace of doubt, quickly replaced by a hard glint of triumph. “Hello dear,” Lucia said. “So glad you’re back. Did you have a pleasant holiday?” Elizabeth waited a heartbeat or so before replying.

  “Lucia,” she said fondly. “Carissima. How enchanting to see you again. You look well.” In context, this was tantamount to an accusation, or at least a rebuke for heartlessness.

  “You too,” Lucia replied. “Your trip seems to have done you a world of good. I am so looking forward to hearing all about – oh, where is it you’ve been? My poor little head, so muddled. Lake Garda, wasn’t it?” Elizabeth’s smile hardened, like steel tempered in the fire.

  “You must come to tea this afternoon, then,” she replied, “and I’ll tell you all about it.” She glanced around, to confirm that the invitation was general, and received the confirmation of general nods and smiles. “But now, if you’ll all excuse me, a few errands. A rividerci,” she added, as Major Benjy ushered her down the street with the air of a brigade of cavalry escorting a royal progress; and it was universally noted that the first shop she entered was the chemist’s. As she walked disconsolately home along the long road to Grebe, Lucia’s mind worked with determined speed. It had been bad enough to begin with; Elizabeth receiving that small but adequate legacy from a previously unsuspected aunt (“I’ll swear the lawyers made a mistake and it wasn’t her aunt at all,” as she told herself; “or why hadn’t we ever heard of the woman before? No doubt she simply kept the money and didn’t tell anyone”), followed by the subsequent announcement of a lifetime ambition now capable of fulfilment, a visit to the queen of cities, the Most Recent Serene Republic. Such a blatant infringement on Lucia’s Italian dominions was in itself an act of war; yet at the time she had been happy to hold her tongue, satisfied that Elizabeth’s own over-reaching folly would undo her and more than content with the prospect of three whole weeks without her. Many a dictatorial ruler, she had reflected, has embarked on some frivolous foreign adventure only to return and find that in his absence his subjects have thrown off the yoke. So let it be, so to speak, with Caesar. And sure enough, over the past three weeks she had done good work and made significant progress, in spite of the fact that all things Italian had been, of necessity, topics to be avoided at all costs. Thus she had had to weed out of her everyday speech the few little flowers of Italian phrase and idiom that had somehow taken root there over the years; all discussions of art and music had had to be carefully monitored and structured so as to avoid the untimely topic. Even her own name (or at least her nom de guerre, since she had been christened plain Emmeline by her unimaginative parents) had proved an embarrassment to her. These difficulties, however, she had coped with so ably that she had anticipated poor Elizabeth’s return to be largely a consolidation of her own achievement, as a Tilling weaned away from the Latin flavour found itself recoiling from the taste when presented with it by the tablespoonful, as it were, by the returning Elizabeth. Somehow, it had all gone wrong, if her senses weren’t deceiving her. But how?

  The crucial question was still unanswered in her mind as she barged through her garden gate and rapped sharply at the door. There was, she knew, something odd about the way Elizabeth had been acting; behind that frail, fascinating façade of a survivor come wanly smiling from the world’s greatest snare (whatever that was about; well,, they’d all find out soon enough, as sure as eggs were eggs) there was something else, something she couldn’t quite make out but which she was convinced was the root of the matter. There would be time for all that later, she assured herself, as the door opened; now she needed to regroup and consolidate her strength before the dreadful prospect of the afternoon’s tea party. She let her basket drop unheeded in the hall, retreated to the quiet of her study and spent the rest of the morning writing a ferocious letter to the coal merchant.

  Nature, prompted perhaps by Quaint Irene’s earlier suggestion, obliged with a sudden squall of heavy rain and the distant rumble of thunder to usher the guests in to Elizabeth’s tea party. Umbrellas jostled each other in West Street as the hour approached, and for once everyone was so punctual in arriving as to be, in practical terms, early.

  “Such dreadful weather,” Miss Mapp commented, as the party assembled (with one noticeable, almost inevitable exception) in the garden room. “And yet, what can be more evocatively English than a sudden, sweet-smelling shower on a spring afternoon?”

  Diva Plaistow, soggy about the cuffs and bad-tempered as a result, was tempted to ask Elizabeth to clarify her definition of a shower, but decided not to. For some reason, Elizabeth seemed terribly fragile, like some wounded hero carried from the battlefield, so that picking her up on some slight slip of the tongue would be uncalled for to the extent of rudeness. Instead, therefore, she wiped a dribble of rain from the bridge of her nose and held her tongue, while keeping a close eye on the peregrinations of chocolate-coated ginger biscuits.

  “So what was it like?” she demanded. “Venice, I mean. Such a strange place, I’ve always thought, with water running down all the streets and having to go everywhere on those funny lopsided boats. I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to go there myself, because boats always make me feel seasick, although it isn’t really the sea so perhaps that wouldn’t apply. But everyone says how marvellous it all is, and especially the paintings.”

  As usual after Diva had spoken at any length there was a moment’s silence, as her audience unravelled the threads of her speech like a ball of wool tangled my a mischievous dog. Then Mr Wyse cleared his throat as if to speak; but Elizabeth was beforehand with him.

  “What a charming misapprehension, Diva dearest! Of course it isn’t sea at all, and the water is always as still as a duck-pond, so even you wouldn’t suffer a moment’s discomfort. And the dear little gondoli – so comfortable! There will always be a corner of my heart that is for ever Venice, in spite,” she added, as her expression changed completely, “of everything. But enough of that. What has been happening in our dear little Tilling while I’ve been away? I do hope somebody will tell me all the excitements …”

  “Well …” Mrs Bartlett began, but nobody heeded her or let her continue; the words “in spite of everything” hung in the air like Pentecostal fire and could not be so easily ignored.

  “In spite of what?” Georgie demanded hungrily, leaning forward so intently that a small, dry cake slid off his plate into his lap, and his request was echoed across the room. But Miss Mapp simply held u
p a hand for silence. It was clear that the recital was being delayed until a certain absent friend arrived; and it was probably as well for the blood pressure of the assembly that, a minute or so later, the door opened and Lucia entered the room. She was, it was impossible not to notice, very wet. One sleeve on the windward side, beyond the protective shield of her umbrella, was sodden with rain and a damp patch on her skirt strongly suggested some incident involving a careless passing motorist and a deep puddle. She entered the room warily, like an army approaching the site of a possible ambush, and her apology for her lateness was positively meek.

  “You poor thing!” exclaimed Miss Mapp, observing her bedraggled condition. “Come and sit here beside me, where it’s warm. You’ll soon dry out. After all,” she added in marked tone, “it wouldn’t do for you to catch pneumonia as well.”

  The hint, tantalising as it was, was enough to satisfy the sharpest edge of curiosity, while whetting the appetite for further revelations. So Elizabeth had fallen ill during her holiday, which explained her drained and shattered appearance! A tremor of subdued sympathy ran around the room, augmented by Elizabeth’s compassion in offering her fireside seat to the robustly healthy Lucia.

  “So that’s why you’re looking washed out,” Irene said with a sharp nod. “Fell in the canal and caught a cold, I suppose. And there I was thinking it was the after-effects of some frightful dissipation or other.”

  Elizabeth’s smile, as she turned her head to look at Irene, was quite awesome in its warmth.

  “Double pneumonia actually,” she said carelessly, “but much better now, thank you so much. At least, the doctors have assured me that the danger is quite past, and a few days’ rest – but where shall I find that I wonder, in this little maelstrom of a town? Scarcely have I set foot once again on my native strand than here I am back again, with all my oldest and dearest friends around me, as before! Such a tonic, of course, and so much better for one than any gloomy old hospital.”