Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [103]
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 the second floor he glimpsed him again, motionless, watching, half concealed by a linen-room door. The Major ignored him. What did the rascal want spying on him all the time?
At last he reached the fourth floor. He paused after a few paces along the corridor and steadied himself, thinking: “I must be feverish.” He had a sore throat. His throat was painfully dry. He had to keep swallowing.
Rover had been waiting for him to move forward but now pricked up his ears, alerted by some faint sound. Nose to the carpet he surged forward without waiting for the Major. He stopped outside one of the rooms and scratched at the door. A few feet away the Major halted and watched. Rover scratched the door again.
The door was opened a few inches. Rover vanished inside. The door closed again.
For a few moments the Major tried to visualize the scene that Rover would now be confronted with. Then he turned and tiptoed back the way he had come, stood for a while on the landing, thinking: “After all, it’s none of my business,” and finally made up his mind to retire to his own room. An hour or so later he got up and went to look down into the drive. The Rolls-Royce was no longer there. At six o’clock one of the maids pushed a note under his door. It was from Ripon and said: “Please don’t mention my being here to Father. Ripon.”
His incipient cold had taken away his appetite, so he did not go down for dinner. Instead, he got between the sheets fully dressed (the room was chilly) and dozed fitfully until late in the evening when there was a knock at the door. He sat up.
It was Edward. He stared in surprise as the Major, fully clad in waistcoat, collar and tie, threw aside his bedclothes and swung his trousered legs over the side of the bed.
“Look, about Ripon...” the Major began, dazed and forgetting Ripon’s instructions.
“Oh, he was in splendid form,” Edward told him cheerfully. “Spent the afternoon with him while Sarah was with her surgeon fellow in Harcourt Street. Mind you, he’ll need a bit of a helping hand...”
He was interrupted by a deafening volley of sneezes from the Major, whose head drooped wearily between his knees while he groped for a handkerchief.
“I say, you seem to have caught a bit of a cold,” Edward said sympathetically.
The Major nodded, his eyes streaming. On second thoughts he decided to swing his legs back into bed and pull the blankets up to his chin.
“You got your hair cut,” the Major mused.
“Eh? Yes, so I did. Stopped in at Prost’s this afternoon before going out to Ripon’s place in Rathmines. I mean, I couldn’t very well