Free What Happened at Hazelwood? by Michael Innes Page B

first met George and him out riding, and I could always reflect that if his beauty had not somehow set off George’s vigorous physical life I might have been spared landing myself in a scrape. Then, again, the meaning of Timmy’s being here was plain to me from previous experience. One or more of the housemaids had left in a hurry, and the boy had been turned on to the first necessary job. Whether newly promoted footmen are commonly given such tasks I don’t know – and on the preceding night it had rather been my impression that George designed to dismiss him to the outdoors again for good. But, anyway, here he was. I sat up, reached for a wrap, and poured tea. ‘Good morning, Timmy,’ I said. ‘Why is this?’
    Timmy moved to the next window. ‘If you don’t like it,’ he said, ‘you can have Martin. Or so I would suppose. But her ladyship seems to hold it beneath her dignity to stir until you have to be got on your feet. That’s why it’s me. Nothing’s beneath my dignity, of course. I hope the tea’s all right. I made it.’
    ‘It’s the Lapsang,’ I said gratefully. ‘Have a piece of bread and butter.’
    Timmy took a piece. He took a quick glance at the door and then sat down on the foot of the bed. ‘Oh, lord!’ he said.
    When we were alone together this sultry boy and I were human beings. There was much impropriety in this, I don’t doubt. It had just happened.
    ‘How is Mervyn?’ I asked.
    ‘Bruises.’ Timmy’s voice held satisfaction. ‘But nothing broken and no sprains.’ This he added dejectedly.
    I pushed towards him the second of the three slivers of bread and butter which he had brought in. ‘I don’t think you like Mervyn very much?’
    ‘I admire him.’
    ‘You mustn’t do that.’
    ‘I admire him. I am ignorant enough to admire him. He has been to a public school while I have groomed horses or cleaned knives.’
    I laughed. ‘What’s the good of a public school? It means nothing but manners and an accent.’
    Timmy Owdon looked up swiftly. ‘My accent is identical with his. And my manners are a great deal better.’
    Both these statements, it occurred to me, were true. ‘Yes,’ I said gently, ‘–of course.’
    ‘These are facts which tell you a good deal about me.’ Timmy moved away the tray, jumped off the bed and brought me a hand mirror. ‘Would this be the next part of the ritual? Anyway, you will find it heartening.’
    ‘Heartening?’
    ‘You bear up very well.’ He smiled as he spoke, and his smile was at once wicked and friendly. ‘Your ladyship is quite an example to me. But then, of course, I am young enough to feel my position keenly.’ He frowned, as if catching in his own voice the echo of Mervyn’s self-conscious manner of speech. ‘Damn Mervyn.’ He flushed darkly. ‘I say – I’m frightfully sorry.’
    ‘Sorry, Timmy?’
    ‘For saying damn.’
    I just managed not to laugh – and I should have very much hated myself otherwise. For I had stopped being annoyed. There are gentlemen and gentlemen, and Timmy Owdon belonged with a scarcer sort. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you know too much and not enough.’
    ‘Yes.’ He looked at me questioningly. ‘I suppose it is very unusual?’
    ‘Very. Lots of boys are born in that way, Timmy. But either their birth is concealed from them or they are given the breeding of their legitimate brothers – though perhaps at a distance.’
    ‘I see.’ He hesitated. ‘Of course I hate him a little – Sir George. But not tremendously – because of that. If – if anything ever happened, I would like you to know it was not because of that.’
    I let the mirror drop on the bed. ‘Timmy,’ I said, ‘what do you mean?’
    He looked at me directly – and suddenly with flashing eyes. ‘They say it was my mother,’ he said. ‘But do I really know about my father – though Owdon is my name? It may have been the other way. He may be my father – Sir George. Nicolette, how I wish I could be sure