The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [102]
“If you say so, sir.”
“See you at Brooklands one of these days, eh? Almost hit a heifer on the way over...I tell you, Major, he’s a real bright spark. Hey, on parade!” And Ripon, lunging forward, knocked the peaked cap off Driscoll’s head on to the gravel. Driscoll instantly dropped into a boxing stance, right fist guarding his chin, left fist pumping exaggeratedly back and forth, chuckling as Ripon feinted in one direction and tried to land a blow from the other. The Major watched, in dismay.
“You’ll find me in the house,” he said sharply and turned away, thankful that Edward was not on hand to see his son skylarking with the chauffeur.
“Hey, wait a minute. Wouldn’t you like to go for a ride in her? Wait, Major...look, I thought Driscoll might take you for a drive around while I’m writing a note for the old man.”
“No thanks.” The Major had already reached the door. He turned and glanced back. Driscoll was picking up his cap. Ripon’s round cherubic face was looking towards him in consternation. “Whatever is the matter with the fellow?” wondered the Major.
Feeling tired and somewhat feverish (he believed he must have a cold coming on), the Major went upstairs to his room and lay on his bed. But presently he got up again, searched through the drawers of his dressing-table for a cigarette, found one and lit it. The tobacco tasted dry and stale. He put it out almost immediately.
A few minutes later he made his way along the dusty corridor towards a room which looked out over the drive. The Rolls-Royce was still standing there. Driscoll was sitting on the running-board flicking gravel. Ripon was talking earnestly to one of the maids under the orangerie door; the Major could just see the white starched cuff of her sleeve moving against the black material of her uniform.
A few more minutes elapsed before he made up his mind to go downstairs again. But Ripon was no longer to be seen. Wearily the Major set off to look for him, trailing through one room after another. Rover, uncomfortable in Edward’s absence, trotted at the Major’s heels, as anxious as he was himself to find whoever it was they were looking for. The Major stopped. He felt delirious and thought: “I must have caught a chill. It’s like being in a maze. I’ve walked for miles. Are those footsteps I can hear or am I imagining things? I must avoid the rooms where the old women will be at this time... Really, I feel quite ill.” He turned and retraced his steps swiftly. It was Murphy.
The Major was astonished, never having known Murphy to follow anyone. On the contrary, the old rascal usually made himself scarce. Murphy stood his ground, though irresolutely, avoiding the Major’s eye. But the Major was in no mood to be trifled with and, grasping the old man by the lapels of his faded, stained livery, he said harshly: “Well?” Murphy made an incoherent reply. What was he trying to say? The Major shook him. But no, the old fellow was merely caught in the spasm of a long and wheezing cough that dampened the back of the Major’s hand.
“Where’s Ripon?”
Murphy pointed upwards and whispered: “Fourt’ floor.” His wizened skull of a face with its bushy yellow eyebrows peered up at the Major, lips contracting back over empty gums in which stood two or three discoloured teeth. Shocked, the Major stepped back a pace. The old blackguard was smiling! Clenching his fist, he all but drove it into Murphy’s face. With an effort he restrained himself. He turned on his heel and strode rapidly towards the foyer, Rover at his heels. He was conscious that Murphy was following at a distance.
He climbed the stairs painfully. He was suffocated. Murphy had vanished up some dark ancillary staircase of which perhaps only he knew the secret. But on