Storm on Venus Read online

  Wilfred nodded in agreement. 'Of course. Once you realise, it's obvious. You tend to imagine them falling at night, but they must be just as common during the day.'

  'Fancy that — seeing a real meteorite! Old Ludo'll be wild to have missed it. Right on his doorstep too. Must have been a pretty big one, wouldn't you say? To show up in daylight, I mean. It certainly looked big.'

  'Must have been. Lucky it landed out here and not in a town. I read of one once, went clean through someone's roof; nearly killed a baby in its cradle.'

  'Makes you think,' said Freddy pensively. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, eh? Done that Simms a bit of good, though; I doubt you'll catch him now.'

  Soon they were tearing along at their former pace, though now with little hope of success. Regaining the main road, they were just in time to make out the distant rear of the Hispano, far ahead and romping home the last furlong.

  'Sorry, old chap, you owe me a fiver.'

  Wilfred reached for his wallet. 'Worth it, I suppose, to see that. If we'd gone the other way, we'd have missed it.' Suddenly he frowned. 'Though thinking about it, wouldn't you have expected to hear a bit of a bang or explosion of some sort — when it hit the ground?'

  'Good point,' said Freddy. 'We'll see what our tame astronomer has to say; he's the expert, after all. Fancy a swig of bubbly?'

  Chapter 2

  With the after-dinner toasting and speechifying finally at an end, Daphne Lambent's “birthday bash” was now in full swing. The bright facade of Hathercombe Hall shone out in the darkness like a welcoming beacon, while the sound of laughter and gaily syncopated music could distinctly be heard in the village, half a mile away.

  As expected, the engagement was now official, and to Freddy Carstairs had fallen the honour of formally congratulating the happy couple. He was something of a raconteur – known for it – and his reflections on the joys and pitfalls of young love had been gratifyingly well received. The effort had left him a little tired, however – or perhaps it was the champagne, which didn't always agree with him – and he'd felt the need to requisition a stiff restorative brandy from Agnes, Daphne Lambent's rather charming little maid.

  Offering a few kind words and a little pat by way of thanks, Freddy made his slightly unsteady way among his fellow guests, stopping frequently to greet old friends and make new. Eventually he found himself in the lofty and elegant orangery where the young people were dancing to a most agreeable jazz band. The night was warm, and beyond the open doors many others could be seen taking their ease on the long terrace, illuminated for the occasion by scores of twinkling fairy-lights. Servants carrying trays moved among them.

  Magical! thought Freddy, simply magical! And he felt a sudden frisson of pure delight, such as one might obtain from a perfect drive at golf, or a hedge successfully negotiated while hunting. Perching himself on a windowsill, he placed his glass beside him and unhurriedly lit a cigar. Someone offered him a chair but he graciously refused. He could see more from up here, for the dimly lit room was already quite crowded, besides being filled with a bluish haze of tobacco-smoke, mingling deliciously with the fragrances of the young women. Freddy drank deeply of this heady draught and sighed contentedly. This was the glittering centre of his world — a timeless world of gentlemen's clubs, of the London Season, of Deauville every summer and long, lazy weekends at the great county houses; a sporting world mostly, of golf and tennis, cricket and croquet, bridge and baccarat, sailing and hunting and the Glorious Twelfth of August. He loved all these things with a passion, but he loved the parties best. He had dreamt of nights such as this when, as an already greying and somewhat portly subaltern, he'd done his bit at Ypres and Verdun and, very nearly fatally, in the trenches of the Somme. Indeed, it would hardly be too much to say those dreams had kept him going then, had kept him alive when there seemed little reason to stay alive.

  He had never married, but he was fond of children and had willingly cared for Wilfred after his mother died. Daphne, of course, he doted on. Now Wilfred was taking a year off from running the Empire, and Freddy had resumed his avuncular responsibilities with enthusiasm. He was determined that the boy, too, should have a good time, and at his age that meant only one thing. Bit of luck, then, that Daphne's party had coincided with his return. Most of her chums were pretty and all of them were rich. If he was going to be smitten – and he was just about of an age to be smitten – then it might as well be by a rich one!

  Now, who was it to be? Who out of this feast of feminine pulchritude would he choose if he were still young and handsome and not yet come to consist mostly of cummerbund? The willowy brunette in the red dress was a fine, handsome filly. Must stand fifteen hands at least. Or how about that sweet little creature with the dimples? Did Wilfred care for dimples, he wondered? He'd always had a weakness for them himself.

  Suddenly he smiled. Above the music and chatter he could clearly hear the querulous tones of a now thoroughly well-oiled Bunty Fairweather. He was something of an admirer of Bunty. The gel might be fast but she had spirit. Indeed, she seemed to live as if every breath might be her last. She'd been dancing with, of all people, Charles Prendergast, and now seemed disinclined to let the poor fellow go. Stiff with embarrassment, he was trying desperately to remove her arms from around his neck.

  Bit of a stuffed shirt that one, Freddy decided. Overfond of his dignity. Should make a good politician if he could get himself elected. Would it work, he and Daphne? Wilfred was right; it was a big gap – half a generation – and she such a dear, innocent child, as different from the wild Miss Fairweather as could well be imagined, though they must be about the same age. Ah, now she'd got him back on the floor again. Better that, he supposed, than create a scene. As a matter of fact they moved rather nicely together. Just as well they'd made the engagement official or Daphne might have had to watch out! He wondered what had happened to Wilfred; he was missing all the fun.

  'Freddy, there you are!'

  Freddy turned to see, pushing through the dancers, a strange, dishevelled little man, scarcely more than five feet tall, with thick, horn-rimmed spectacles, a perfectly bald pate and, by way of compensation, a profusion of yellowish whiskers. What on earth was he wearing? His coat looked as if he'd slept in it and his trousers were about an inch too long. Masters must have been too busy to dress him. 'Hullo Ludo, old bean,' he cried. 'Splendid party, what? You've certainly done well by that goddaughter of mine. The ice sculpture was a nice touch, and the fairy-lights. Your idea?'

  'Fairy-lights?' Ludovic, Viscount Lambent, universally known as the Professor, gazed myopically about him. 'Oh, you mean in the garden. I'm afraid I leave all that sort of thing to Maudy. Tell me, is it true you saw a meteorite? Where was it? Did you really see it come down?'

  'Well, we saw something. I'm not sure what it was, to be honest. A meteorite seemed the best explanation. Not an aeroplane anyway. I say, isn't it absurd how these young gels strap themselves in? And the hair! Or rather, the lack of it. More like boys, some of 'em. Beautiful boys, mind you.'

  'Er, yes, I suppose it is. And you saw it fall to earth, this object?'

  'We saw it go below the trees. We didn't actually see it hit the ground.'

  'Where? Where were you looking?'

  'Well, it would be roughly in this direction I suppose, but it was impossible to say how far away it might be. No sense of scale you know.'

  Freddy found himself rather pleased with this measured response. In their Oxford days, Ludo was forever accusing him of imprecision, or worse, enthusiasm. The old boy looked pretty enthusiastic himself now though, frisking about like St Vitus on a fakir's mattress. Perhaps it was the bubbly at dinner, or all these young people. Not that he remembered his old friend being much interested in booze or gels in their college days, or anything outside his confounded stinks and instruments. How he had managed to meet, let alone marry, the redoubtable Maud was an enduring mystery.

  'Oh dear,' said the Professor, mostly to himself. 'I wonder, could it be
? Yes, I suppose it could. Oh dear, oh dear, and so terribly soon. Whatever am I to do?'

  'Soon?' frowned Freddy. 'What is soon? Soon for what?'

  'Hmm?' said the Professor distractedly. 'Please forgive me, Freddy, I really must go to my observatory; there may be more. Do you think Maudy would notice if I slipped away for a few minutes?'

  'Good heavens, Ludo!' cried Freddy. 'You can't play hookey from your only daughter's twenty-first; Maudy would have your entrails for sausage cases.'

  Never ceasing his nervous prancing, the Professor nevertheless appeared to make up his mind. 'You are right, Freddy, as always. All the same, I think I must absent myself; in the interests of science, you understand. Just for half an hour. It would be best, perhaps, if you were to pretend you haven't seen me. Consider me invisible. Quite an interesting concept, if you think about it.'

  Freddy fondly watched him go. Same old Ludo; never changes. It would be quiet for Maud, he reflected, with Daphne gone and the Prof in his observatory. A sudden commotion made him look towards the band where Bunty had somehow got herself hoisted onto the piano-top and was frantically doing the Black Bottom, the others laughing and egging her on. My goodness, but that young woman was going to have the most glorious hangover in the morning! Prendergast, he noted, had taken refuge among some of those stuffy pals of his: that Italian couple and the newspaper fellow. Dammit, he thought, it wasn't fair! Just when you were old enough to really enjoy yourself, no-one wanted you. He'd know what to do with Bunty Fairweather all right. By Jove he would! And it wouldn't be on the dance-floor either.

  Sitting on the candle-lit terrace, Wilfred was scarcely aware of his surroundings, let alone the excitement within, for close beside him, almost touching, was a golden-haired girl so perfect he could scarcely believe she was real. Never in his life had he seen such enchanting lips, such a pretty nose, such enormous, guileless eyes! A man might drown, he thought, in those bottomless, blue pools, willingly surrender to the waters as they closed over his head, a sacrifice to love. Why did he have to meet her on this of all days? Why could it not have been yesterday, or last week, or last year? Now another man would ever worship at that shrine and he must surely spend his life wandering alone, eventually to die of a broken heart. First he'd lost the motor race, and with it a much-needed fiver, and now he'd lost the girl of his dreams. It really was too bad. Already he could feel a poem coming on. What rhymes with despair? he wondered.

  'You naughty boy,' said Daphne. 'You said you were going to tell me about Africa but I do believe you just want to stare at me.'

  Blushing, Wilfred was jerked out of his bitter reverie. 'What? Sorry, yes, Africa. Well there's not much to tell really. Most of it was pretty dull to be honest; taking up the white man's burden and all that. A good deal of my time was spent stopping the various tribes from knocking seven bells out of each other, or trying to. They're utterly savage, you know, when their blood is up, and it only takes some trivial thing to set them off. I managed to do some shooting though, in between.'

  'Shooting! Gosh, how exciting! What did you shoot, lions and tigers and things?'

  'Not tigers. There are no tigers in Africa.'

  'Really? I didn't know that.'

  'I shot an elephant, though.'

  'An elephant! Goodness! Was it a big one?'

  'Yes, an old bull. Quite fierce. Sometimes they go rogue and trample a few natives and then you have to shoot them. This one was a real killer. He came straight at us, knocking down trees and trumpeting blue murder. Luckily I managed to get him with the second shot. You should have seen our boys going in after the tusks. He'd barely hit the ground.'

  Daphne's already saucer-like eyes grew even wider. 'Golly, that's amazing! You must be frightfully brave. Weren't you terribly frightened? I should have been.'

  'No, not really; we were in the shooting-brake, you know. Of course, if it had broken down or something . . .' He paused, suddenly aware of how he must sound. Wouldn't she think him terribly boastful and conceited?

  'Well? What would have happened?' demanded Daphne. 'Would he have turned you over and gored you with his tusks?'

  'Er, I don't know really,' said Wilfred lamely. 'Perhaps the noise would have scared him off. It's a lovely night isn't it? Look at those stars! It's nice to be able to sit outside and not be forever swatting mozzies.'

  Daphne smiled and held out her hand to him. 'You can look at my ring if you like.'

  Leaning forward, the better to peer at it, Wilfred was acutely aware of how close this brought him to the object of his desire. He had a sudden almost irresistible urge to make a complete cad of himself and kiss her. 'It's very . . . sparkly,' he ventured.

  'You must see it tomorrow by daylight,' she said, standing up. 'Come on, you haven't danced with me yet. I suppose you ought properly to ask Charles, but now he's got me he seems to think he can just wander off.'

  'Yes, I'd like that,' said Wilfred trying not to appear too eager. 'Perhaps a waltz?'

  'A waltz! How wonderfully quaint. Is that what they do in Africa? Oh look, here they come now. Hullo Uncle Freddy, are you enjoying the party? Darling, I'm just about to dance with Mr Carstairs. We're going to make them play a waltz.'

  'Well first you must say goodbye to Lillian,' said Charles. 'She's leaving now, and Miss Fairweather is going with her.'

  'So soon!' cried Daphne, embracing her friend. 'Can't you stay a little longer?'

  'Darling we'd love to, but the Lorimers are going on to Valentino's and they've offered me and Bunty a lift. You don't mind, do you? I've told Charles he's a very lucky man and when you're married you must come and stay with us.'

  Wilfred waited while the girls chattered interminably, a polite smile concealing his mounting impatience. If the confounded woman was going, why didn't she just clear off? The party was rapidly coming to an end, and with it probably his only chance to hold Daphne in his arms; a tiny taste of paradise to sustain him through the long, lonely years ahead.

  'I hate him,' said Bunty.

  'I'm sorry?' Wilfred turned to look at her. It was their third encounter of the day, for he had found himself seated next to her at dinner and had thought her rather strange. Oddly, there was something about her that reminded him of Daphne, though she was nowhere near as lovely; in fact, rather plain. Perhaps they were related, he would have to ask.

  'I said I hate him,' repeated Bunty. Her voice was slurred and she was distinctly swaying. 'I hate you all.'

  'Good heavens, why?'

  'You're . . .' She appeared to be searching for the right word. 'You're degenerate, that's what you are. Primitive and degenerate.'

  'I hardly see how one can be both,' began Wilfred, but just then Lady Maud came bustling up to them.

  'Lilly dear, are you going? Well, it's been lovely having you. Please be sure to give my regards to your mother. And Miss, er. . . I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name. I'm so glad you could come. Daphne, your aunt Mary is on the telephone, all the way from New York! You'd better take it in your father's study. Hurry now, or you'll lose the connection. Mr Carstairs, you must forgive me; I've neglected you shamefully. Are you enjoying the party? Your uncle tells me you've been in East Africa.'

  Wilfred inwardly groaned. He knew he'd never get his dance now. 'Yes, Kenya. Though I travelled a fair amount; the Congo particularly — "Heart of darkness" and all that.'

  'Did you by Jove!' exclaimed Charles. 'I'd dearly love to visit the Congo; maybe even bag one of those big puggies eh? I've always thought the right sort of fellow could do very well for himself in those parts.'

  'Not if he wants to marry my daughter,' said Lady Maud firmly. 'I will tell you a story about the Congo. Freddy, do you remember Edith Sowerbutts, from last year in Venice?'

  'Yes indeed — fine, handsome woman. Husband hunts with the Quorn.'

  'That's right; he was in the Horse Guards with Peregrine. Well, her brother went out to plant rubber, right in the jungle somewhere. They'd been there barely a year when his poor wife died of some
dreadful fever and he took to drink and had I don't know how many children by a black mistress. Then he died and the creature had the temerity to lay claim to his estate! Some ghastly Belgian lawyer put her up to it, though of course he only wanted the money for himself. It cost the family a fortune to untangle it.'

  'Then I solemnly swear not to take Daphne to a jungle,' vowed Charles, smiling. 'But if I do, I'll be sure not to take a mistress.'

  More people came to say their goodbyes. In the orangery, now deserted, the band could be seen packing up their instruments. Lady Maud shivered. 'It's getting chilly,' she said. 'I believe I shall go indoors.'

  'Last drink, anyone?' asked Charles, making to follow her.

  'I say, wait a minute,' said Freddy. 'I could swear I heard a scream just then.'

  'Yes, now you mention it, so did I, said Maud. 'I expect it was a fox. They can make a dreadful din sometimes. You'd think someone was being murdered.'

  'No, I rather fancy it was in the house,' said Freddy. 'Quite close anyway.'

  'It sounded to me like a scream of mortal terror,' said Wilfred authoritatively. 'You hear a lot of those in Africa.'

  'Then should we not investigate?' asked Lady Maud.

  But at that moment a near-hysterical Agnes came running from the direction of the Professor's study. 'Oh your ladyship, come quick,' she cried. 'It's Miss Daphne. She's fainted!'

  Daphne lay untidily where she had fallen, still clutching in one hand the telephone earpiece. Her lovely face was pale as a corpse and for a heart-stopping moment Wilfred feared she might indeed be dead.

  'Agnes, the sal volatile,' ordered Maud. 'And a blanket. Charles, pass me that cushion. It's probably the excitement.'

  But Daphne was already stirring. Moaning and shaking her head as if in the grip of a bad dream she opened her eyes and immediately sat bolt upright, staring in obvious fear at the study's garden-door. 'It was there!' she declared. 'It followed me in!'