Free Symposium by Muriel Spark Page A

mother and son, I couldn’t tell you for sure.’
    ‘Goodbye,
Corby,’ said Luke.
    ‘Goodbye,
Luke.’
    Their
goodbyes were not for long, for Luke did come round by the back door at five
o’clock next day. He found Charterhouse in, and under cover of being shown the
exact disposition of the serving table and sideboard of the dining-room — a
veritable rehearsal — managed to obtain a great deal more information about
the guests than he had obtained from Corby.
     
     
    ‘People called Suzy,’ said
Charterhouse. ‘A lord and a lady. Then people called —’
    ‘I
guess they did the Suzys’,’ said Luke.
    ‘I
daresay,’ said Charterhouse. ‘They were the people they burgled. They were actually
upstairs asleep the whole time, they weren’t out of London as supposed, but
they got away with it, up to a point.’ Luke did not seem puzzled by the
identification of the alternative ‘theys’. He obviously knew who Charterhouse
meant. ‘They’, said Charter-house, standing tall and dignified in Chris Donovan’s
blue dining-room, ‘left a picture by early Francis Bacon on the wall and took a
mirror instead. Utter fools. They only had the boot of a car and they said
that’s all they would fit in. When they found they’d been robbed they were
gloating over the picture being left behind.’
    Corby
the chef appeared at the door of the dining-room.
    ‘Chef?’
said Charterhouse.
    ‘Nothing,’
said Corby.
    ‘I am
explaining to our young man,’ said Charterhouse, ‘the lay of the land for the
forthcoming dinner.’
    ‘It
isn’t no banquet,’ said Corby.
    ‘Banquet
or no banquet,’ said Charterhouse, ‘to me it is an occasion. I am a
perfectionist as regards occasions.’
    ‘I
guess I’ll manage,’ said Luke.
    ‘He
should know who’s who at the dinner,’ said Charterhouse to Corby.
    ‘Why?’
said Corby. ‘One serving one plate, is the same as any other plate. Unless
there’s a special diet present.’
    ‘I’ll
manage, I guess,’ said Luke who was decidedly nervous.
    ‘If you
guessed you’d manage why did you come back to see me?’ said Charterhouse very
cool, very lofty. ‘Mr Corby, if you please.’
    ‘What?’
said Corby.
    ‘Let me
finish instructing our young man as to his duties and what they imply as
regards the personalities expected.’
    ‘Not
necessary,’ said Corby. Nevertheless, he retreated. Mrs Donovan and Mr Reed did
rather appreciate Charterhouse, they respected his haughtiness. Those butler’s
manners were worth their weight in gold.
    ‘Now,’
said Charterhouse, when he was sure that the chef had gone right away out of earshot,
‘another couple that will be here for the dinner and therefore away from home
at that hour, are called Untzinger.’
    ‘I know
the Untzingers. Ella gets me jobs. She sent me here.’
    ‘Their
surroundings?’
    ‘Comfortable.
But nothing much for our friends. We should be careful.’
    ‘A Mr
Roland Sykes. Unmarried. He has money. His things should be of interest. There
is a couple newly married called Damien. Now, you ask your executive people
about the Damiens. His mother is a multi-millionaire. I’m not sure, but I
imagine she’ll be at the dinner. If she’s of any interest, and she should be of
interest, let me know. I’ll write out a list of addresses for you.
    Luke’s
role was merely that of informer. He had started off as a genuine party-helper,
employed by catering firms and private people. And he was, indeed, a genuine
post-graduate in modern history. Some months ago he had been approached by a
fellow-waiter at a grand and luxurious wedding. ‘I wish’, said the waiter, ‘I
had a list of these guests and their addresses. All absent from home hours and
hours today. A list would be worth a fortune.’
    Luke
was puzzled at first, but remarkably quick to perceive the point. He loaded his
tray with champagne and orange juice, ready to circulate with it outside the
marquee. He looked at his fellow-labourer and cast a glance round