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ONE

Mary, Countess of Greyminster, looked round her brother's cluttered little flat in Mayfair with an expression of dismay verging on disgust. 'What you need,' she said firmly, 'is a good woman.'
    The face of Frederick Athelstan de Boyes Darnborough, known to all and sundry as 'Freddie,' showed even more dismay than that of his sister, but he made the best of it. He shrugged elegantly, lit a cigarette whilst he thought of a response, then managed, 'My dear girl, I know standards have slipped more than somewhat since the War - '
    'And don't be an ass. You know perfectly well what I mean.' Lady Greyminster probed cautiously into the dust on the mantel shelf with the tip of an exquisitely gloved finger. 'Ugh! That's those ruined.'
    'I'll buy you some more.'
    'No, you won't. I bought them in Naples, before the War. I'll never get another pair like them.'
    Freddie glanced anxiously at the glove. 'It's only a bit of cobweb.'
    Mary dismissed this with a sneer, then returned to her main theme. 'Yes, a good daily woman to sweep and dust and polish, that's what we need.'
    '"We"? Hasn't Greyminster got his own staff, then? And I'd be frightened to put anything down, I'd never be able to find it - '
    'Are you suggesting you can as things are? Look at this mess, it's absolutely dreadful. Like a jumble sale after a hurricane.'
    'A place for everything - ' intoned Freddie.
    ' - and damn-all in its place, I know.'
    'Language! And I'd have to pay the woman!'
    'You can quite well afford it, though God alone knows how.'
    'And she'd be looking through my things, and steaming open my letters - '
    'Stuff and nonsense!'
    'And she's sure to be a Socialist,' remarked Freddie, with every appearance of concern. It was late January, 1924, and Ramsay Macdonald and the first ever Labour government in Britain had just come to power. If that argument did not win the day with the wife of the Earl of Greyminster, thought Freddie, nothing would. And if nothing would, then Freddie was a goner.
    'Now that really is pathetic.' Mary, twenty-eight years old, elegance from head to toe, regarded 'young Freddie' - two years younger than herself now - with that mixture of affection and contempt appropriate to her status as elder sister. 'Socialists don't go into domestic service! No, you leave everything to me, old boy. I'll guarantee not to land you with some complete outsider in the housekeeping stakes, but something must be done about this mess. Now, are you going to offer me some refreshment, or must I find an ABC?'
    Reluctantly, Freddie climbed to his feet and found a kettle beneath a pile of magazines. 'Earl Grey or China?'
    'Oh, Earl Grey, I think, if you have any lemons.'
    Freddie waved a hand. 'I think there's one on the table there. Or there was.'
    Mary found the remains of the lemon and regarded it without enthusiasm. 'Yes. I see. No, China, please, with milk.'
    As Freddie searched round for perfectly ordinary bits and pieces in that hopelessly lost way in which men behave even in a kitchen they have used for many years, Mary regarded her brother with an analytical eye. Even to a sister's critical gaze, the man wasn't too bad looking. At least he had a chin, which was more than you could say for lot of young men these days; and his hair was neither rabbitty light nor gigolo dark. Nose, average, not too narrow nor too broad nor yet too big; mouth, ditto; eyes, blue. Neither beanpole lank and tall, nor unfashionably squat. And he looked good in evening dress. Yes, there were possibilities.
    The odd drawback too, of course. For example, God only knew how he made his money, the City, perhaps? Mary had no idea. There was, she knew, no income from family sources to speak of, and since the War Freddie had not been what is called gainfully employed, or at any rate not that Mary knew of. Freddie himself was inclined to a certain evasiveness on the subject, just as he was about the War, but he was more than usually well-informed as to horse-racing prospects, which perhaps indicated more of a familiarity with the Turf, and its associated accountants, than a loving sister would like.
    Still, a wife and children would soon alter that! Polish off the rough edges, as it were, that the War had left. Now, there was old Dulcie, a bit talkative but a good forceful personality, and rode well to hounds; or perhaps Maudie Norris would serve better? Yes, Maudie might not be quite such a talker as Dulcie, a bit inclined to sitting quietly thinking, not always a good thing in a wife; but for all that, there was hint in her of an iron core, a hard centre, an inner strength of will that would be highly useful in dealings with Freddie. Yes, indeed.
    'Mary?'
    'Oh, sorry. Miles away. Thanks.' Mary took the cup and saucer, both quite clean, she was pleased to note, that Freddie handed her. 'Thinking about this daily lady of yours. I'll pop round to the agency right away. I use Miss Skeat's in the Strand, d'you know it? Yes, she'll fix you up in no time.' She glanced at her wrist-watch. 'I have another appointment this afternoon, but I can go round first thing tomorrow.' Her gaze wandered round the flat once more, and returned to Freddie. She shuddered theatrically. 'But that's only a temporary stop-gap sort of thing at best. There are limits to what even a very good "char" can do, and especially in a poky little hole like this one. You really ought to move to a bigger place, you know. You don't have to move miles, either. A nice little mews cottage, perhaps. Come to think of it, I believe there's one to let just down the road. I noticed it as I went past earlier.'
    'Oh, I forgot to tell you,' said Freddie. 'I'm thinking of moving.'
    'Oh?' Mary sat up, pleased at this development.
    'Yes, been thinking about it for some time, now. There's a set of apartments in the Albany, and you know I've always had a bit of an ambition to live there.'
    'The Albany?' Mary did not trouble to hide her disappointment. 'But isn't that for unmarried men?'
    'I am an unmarried man,' Freddie pointed out.
    'Well, yes. Now. At the moment. But you surely don't plan to stay that way? Or do you?'
    Freddie flushed under his man-about-town veneer. 'Probably not,' he mumbled. 'I mean, not indefinitely, of course. No. But just at the moment I've no ambitions in that direction. I mean, I hadn't thought - '
    'Now, that's something I can believe! "Hadn't thought", for Heaven's sake! It's time you did think. Why, there's heaps of chaps your age who have served in the War and all the rest of it, no different from you, and yet they're married and - married - and - and fathers, and what have you.' Mary broke off, and smoothed her dress down.
    Freddie was not particularly what you'd call sensitive, but something in his sister's hesitant tone caused his brain to work overtime. His hand shook, so that he had to put his cup down on the floor by his chair. 'Good Lord! Are you - you know?'
    Mary nodded, and laughed. 'I hope it doesn't show!'
    'No, no. You look lovelier than ever, were it possible.'
    'Thank you, brother!'
    Freddie's brow clouded ever so slightly. 'But I say, does Greyminster know?'
    'Has he handed out any cigars lately?'
    'No. But then - '
    Mary shook her head. 'I only knew for certain this morning myself. In fact that's where I was before I came here, at the old quack's in Harley Street. You're the first. Well, the third, or fourth if you count the nurse and what have you.'
    'Good Lord,' said Freddie, in a more reflective tone. 'Well, my heartiest congrats, old thing, goes without saying. He'll be over the moon, Greyminster, I mean. Arthur, I suppose I shall have to call him, if I'm to be uncle to his child. Good Lord. Uncle Freddie!' He shuddered.
    'Yes, Uncle Freddie in very truth. Things move on. That's just what I've been trying to tell you. Things change, and we have to change with them. Isn't there a Latin tag to that general effect?'
    'No, no, no.' Freddie put a hand to his brow. 'I mean, there is, but - no! Things are changing too damned fast, if you ask me! No, I'll need time to adjust to this latest news, before I can think about anything closer to home, as it were.'
    'Well, you can't leave it too long. Not as things are. Because I'll have other fish to fry before too long, as you can imagine. Look here, why don't you come down for the weekend? It'll give you a chance to get to know Arthur better, and to get used to the place, because if you're to be an uncle, you'll be visiting more often in future. And Arthur has some very good cigars, or so they tell me.'
    Freddie shook his head. 'Not this, I'm afraid. I could make next weekend, if the invitation's still open?'
    'Any time, you know that goes without saying. But why not this weekend?'
    'I'm asked to Devorne Manor in Berkshire. You know, Sir Jason Devorne?'
    'Oh.' Mary's eyes went down to her teacup.
    Freddie's brow clouded just a touch. 'You sound as if you disapprove?'
    'Oh, no. No, I can't say that. I would have liked you to come down this weekend, that's all.'
    But something in his sister's voice made Freddie ask, 'Is it?'
    Mary shrugged elegantly. 'No, is it all, though?' Freddie persisted. 'I mean, if there's something I should know, I'd like to know it.'
    'Well, then, if you press the matter, I'm not sure I like Sir Jason Devorne very much,' said Mary.
    The cloud on Freddie's brow darkened. 'May one ask why?'
    'Oh, you know.' Mary made a play of finding an empty space for her cup and saucer. 'One hears tales,' she said vaguely. 'You know, that his business dealings are not always entirely above board, as it were.'
    'Oh, is that all?' Freddie's face cleared. 'You hear those tales about any and every successful businessman. No, perhaps he has a reputation for being hard-nosed, Sir Jason. Indeed there's no "perhaps" about it, he has, but you can't fault his business acumen.' He stared past his sister, musing. 'And he could be damned useful there's no doubt about that. Matter of fact, he was saying as much, or, rather, hinting as much the other day, when I wangled my invitation.'
    '"Wangled"? Did you shove yourself - '
    Freddie shrugged his shoulders. 'Figure of speech. It was one of those things. You know how it is? I happened to be at the club, and bumped into him. He knows Greyminster, Arthur, that is, of course, just as an acquaintance, and we somehow drifted into conversation. Matter of fact, he - Sir Jason, I mean - gave me a tip on some shares which have done rather well in a very short space of time. Came in very handy, just at the moment. I rather think that was to sweeten me up for what came next.'
    'Which was what, exactly?'
    'Well, he happened to mention he wouldn't mind having Arthur on the board of his family company when it's floated on the Stock Exchange later this year.'
    'Oh? Arthur never mentioned any of this to me.'
    Freddie shook his head. 'I think that's why Sir Jason gave me that share tip, and why he's invited me for this weekend. He'd like to get me on his side, so to say, before broaching the matter to Arthur. I say, you won't mention it, will you?'
    Mary laughed. 'Not me!' Then her face clouded slightly, and she went on, 'But if Arthur takes my advice - and he usually does,' she added, with a faint echo of that tone which Freddie had known and dreaded in nursery days, '- then he won't touch it with a barge pole. He doesn't need the money, and I - well, as I say, I don't like Devorne very much at all.'
    Freddie stared at her. 'You sound as if it's not just because of the rumours about his ruthless approach to business?'
    'Oh, well... ' Mary let it trail off.
    'I'd sort of like to know, if you wouldn't mind. Especially if I'm to be a go-between for the fellow.'
    'Well, then. Look here, you won't mention this to anyone, will you?'
    'Of course not.'
    'Well, then, I first met Sir Jason just after the War. You know, of course, he made his pile, or one of them, from munitions, uniforms, that sort of thing? Well, so did others, I suppose, so I don't hold that against him, not as such. But anyway, after the War people were giving dinners, dances, celebrating, and that's when I bumped into him, as you put it. He was polite enough on the surface, I suppose, but there was something about him, his manner - '
    'He didn't insult you, old girl, or anything of that sort?' Freddie's voice was level enough, but there was an odd look in his eyes.
    'No, no. Not in so many words. But - oh, what was that silly French phrase Papa used to use? Something like "double-edged", only not? You know, the things he said, Sir Jason, I mean, were quite capable of innocent interpretation, if one happened to be an innocent young thing.'
    'Which you were?'
    'I was, as a matter of fact. Damn, I'm picking up your silly phrases! But I certainly knew enough, or thought I did, to spot the rotten implication in what he said. Unfortunately, I didn't know enough to give the cold shoulder in any delicate fashion, so I just mumbled something or the other and crawled away. I felt as if I'd been down a sewer.'
    'H'mm.' Freddie shrugged, then said doubtfully, 'He's married now, of course.'
    'So he was then.'
    'Good Lord!'
    'But you won't say anything?' asked Mary anxiously. 'I mean, people did damned silly things when the War ended, you know. A sort of temporary insanity that one shouldn't hold against them. And his poor wife! So don't say anything.'
    'You can count on me.'
    'I know I can. But you see now why I wouldn't - don't - want you - or, rather - well, I'd rather you didn't have anything to do with the man. But if you do, if you want to visit him, then don't say I said anything. Anyway, he may have altered for the better.'
    'Understand perfectly. Rely on my discretion.'
    'H'mm.' Mary was too polite to put into words the phrase, 'would that I could!' As Freddie got up and wandered about, looking for cigarettes, Mary could not help but wonder if she had done the right thing in saying anything about Sir Jason Devorne. After all, it had been a long time ago, comparatively, and people do change. And then it looked as if Freddie might be acquiring some sense of responsibility, of his position in society; would it be all bad were he to be associated with Sir Jason's business, which even Mary could not deny was thriving? And then -
    'All right, old girl?'
    'Oh, yes. No, thanks, I won't smoke. Not with - you know.' And Mary drank her tea, trying to put out of her mind the thought which had just begun to stray into it. Freddie, when all was said and done, had done his bit during the War. Not that he ever talked about it, or encouraged others to do so, but Mary knew quite well, from what other of her acquaintances had said, it had not been any picnic. Freddie, she had not the slightest doubt, had killed other men, other human beings, and for no better reason than he had been told to do so. Mary knew, again at second- or third-hand, that other men had come back from France changed, embittered, with little or no regard for the dignity of man or the sanctity of life. Mary could, though the thought was an unpleasant one, see Freddie killing a man whom he thought he had reason to hate personally. Flattering, of course, that a man would do that for one, even if the man were one's brother! Flattering, in a trashy, romantic novelist sort of way, yes. But not, frankly, the sort of thing that the Countess of Greyminster would want on her conscience.
    She became aware that Freddie had spoken to her. 'Sorry, old boy, miles away.'
    'Only to be expected, I suppose, under the circs. Are you quite sure you're all right?'
    'Oh, yes. Only - you know. A bit of a strain.'
    'Yes. More tea?

*

    'Devorne?' James Ribston, known to all and sundry as 'Ribs,' frowned at Freddie over his glass of beer. 'Why d'you want to know - oh, the float!'
    'Sorry?' Freddie was as keen as the next man on a gamble on shares, but his friends on the Stock Exchange sometimes lost him temporarily.
    'He's planning to get his business listed, offer shares to the public. Didn't you know?'
    'Oh, yes, now you put it into plain English.' Freddie took a pull at his beer. 'A good thing?'
    'I should say so! I'll be putting my shirt on it.'
    'If his business is so successful, why does he need the cash?'
    Ribs thought. 'I don't think he needs it, not as such. As I understood it, he thinks he'd like to slow down. Not retire, exactly, but take more of a back seat. Become Chairman of the Board, but leave the day to day details to someone else.'
    'Doesn't he at the moment? Managers, and so on?'
    Ribs shrugged. 'I expect so. But it isn't the same, is it, running your business as a family firm?'
    'No, I suppose not.' Freddie nodded to the barman. 'Two more, please.' And to Ribs, he went on, 'And what else do you know about him? Personal things, I mean, not business?'
    Ribs looked round, though the bar was not exactly crowded, and lowered his voice. 'He has an eye for the ladies.'
    'Oh?'
    'And more than an eye, if you catch my drift.'
    'Has he, indeed?' And Freddie nodded thoughtfully, as he sipped his beer.

*

    David Corner huddled down into the collar of his Donegal tweed overcoat. The end of January, and winter had decided to come with a vengeance. Corner was standing on the platform at Reading railway station, waiting for a little local train to take him the rest of the way. He peeped through the tiny gap between hat and scarf and glanced round the platform. There was only one other prospective passenger waiting for the little local train that would deposit Corner at the halt-on-demand stop for Devorne Manor. This was a tall young man, dressed in a shabby old coat that looked as if it had seen hard service on the Somme, and a hat that looked as if it had cost more than Corner's entire wardrobe. The young man was, despite the wind that blew snowflakes into his back, holding a newspaper and seemed to be studying the racing pages intently.
    There was something familiar about that back, though, and the costume. Corner was not one to force his company on others, but neither did he like sitting in a corner of a railway compartment alone. He struggled against the wind to move closer to the other man.
    Freddie turned at Corner's approach. 'Hullo!' He saw a rather worried looking middle-aged man, slightly stouter than was good for him, and with a straggly beard he strove to control as the breeze, now carrying with it flakes of snow, caught at it. A decent coat, well fitting, and a very bad hat, a size too small. Freddie grinned happily at the stranger.
    It had been seasonably wintry on and off for a couple of days now, and Freddie had been obliged to stamp his way through an inch of snow and ice to the little newspaper kiosk, where he bought the latest edition of the day's paper. He was scanning the greyhound racing form, for there were no horses running in this weather, with considerable academic interest but without the desperation of the seasoned gambler, when the other man came up to him. Corner raised the hat Freddie had condemned as unsatisfactory. 'Forgive me, sir, but haven't we met before?'
    'Shouldn't think so,' said Freddie cheerfully. He folded the newspaper, and offered it to the newcomer. 'Not a racing man? Very wise.' He studied the other man more closely. 'Still, now that you bring it up, I may - oh, do you have a bookshop? In Charing Cross Road?'
    The other man's face cleared. 'You have it, sir!' He touched his hat, and took a card from an inside pocket.
    Freddie read, 'David Corner, The Corner Bookshop, 25 Wolsey Court, WC.' Freddie nodded a greeting. Though not in any conventional sense a bibliophile, Freddie liked 'a good read,' and he liked a bargain, or, rather, the sense that he had been alert enough to spot a bargain where others had missed it. He had bought many an old and curious volume from the sixpenny rummage bins and stalls that lined Charing Cross Road and its adjacent courts and alleys. 'Yes, that's it. I'm Freddie Darnborough, and I bought a couple of nice prints from you last year. Look very good now they're framed. Still in the middle of the road?' he asked, tapping the card and laughing.
    Corner smiled. 'Yes, indeed. I thought I knew you, sir. Mr Darnborough, of course. Delighted, sir!' He said it automatically and sighed as if he were anything but. 'The middle of the road! It seemed a quaint conceit, you know, calling it "The Corner Bookshop" when it isn't on the corner. And, in the early days, people used to come in and ask, "Why that?" and then I'd tell them, and they'd look round, and perhaps buy something. But, these days, there's nothing doing.' He sighed again, then seemed to perk up slightly. 'Still, the Americans like it, you know. We see a good many these days, and they spend quite freely.'
    'So I'm given to understand. And business is booming?' Freddie regarded the bookseller curiously. 'A bit out of your way, aren't you?'
    'Not a bit of it,' replied Corner stoutly. 'I get out and about a good deal, you know, looking for stock.' Freddie could have sworn the bookseller smacked his lips as he said the last word. Corner went on, 'Yes. Stock, that's the main thing in a little business like mine. And you can't always rely on people coming to you, of course.'
    'So you're looking for stock just now?'
    'No, no! Indeed not. I'm - ' and he broke off, and studied Freddie, then nodded at the newspaper tucked under Freddie's arm. 'Are you a betting man, Mr Darnborough?'
    'It has been known for me to make the occasional wager,' Freddie admitted.
    'Then I'll bet you I can name your destination,' said Corner impressively.
    'Ten bob?'
    'Done!'
    'Well?'
    'Devorne Manor!' said Corner, triumphantly.
    'Good Lord!' Freddie turned away as the wind caught at him, and took a shabby leather wallet from his breast pocket. 'Mind, I'll want a chance to win this back! Tell me,' he asked, as Corner carefully folded the ten shilling note away,

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