Read Online Before the Fact by Francis Iles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Francis Iles
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the hearty meeting of two old school friends. An American film producer would have been disappointed. Instead of putting an arm round each other’s necks and massaging the middle of each other’s backs, they merely hit each other violently in the chest.
“Well, Beaky, you old sinner, this is great. How the devil are you, and all that kind of thing?”
“You’re getting fat, old bean,” pronounced Mr. Thwaite in return. “Deuced fat. What? You’ll have to knock his oats off a bit, Mrs. Aysgarth. Here, what’s your wife’s name, old bean? Can’t go on calling her ‘Mrs. Aysgarth,’ I mean. Sounds too damned formal, and all that sort of rot. What?”
Lina stifled an insane request to be called Mrs. Old Bean.
“Her name’s Lina.”
“Lina, what? Damned good name, too,” adjudged Mr. Thwaite loudly. “Call you ‘Lina’ then, may I?”
“Of course,” Lina said, producing a rather forced smile. She had ideas about whom she permitted to use her Christian name and how long they must have known her first.
She dispensed tea and listened, with wandering interest, to the reminiscences of the two men.
For some time these were confined to old This and old That, and what had happened to old Thing. Then Mr. Thwaite’s memories took a more personal turn.
“Remember how you won the Isaiah prize, what? Good God, I shan’t forget that in a hurry. I’ll bet he hasn’t told you about that, Lina, what?”
“No.” Lina roused herself from the worried consideration of a possible menu should unexpected Mr. Thwaite stay to dinner, as Johnnie, most hospitable of men and untroubled by a larder outlook, would certainly invite him to do. “No, I don’t believe he has. What was that?”
“Why, the Chief was deuced keen on Isaiah, and all that sort of rot, and he offered a special prize one term when the Sixth were mugging it up. This old bean, being a school-pre., was in his study one day and saw the paper on the Chief’s desk. So he took a copy of it. Never done a stroke of work, of course. Never did. But he got the prize all right. What about that?”
“Really, Johnnie.” Lina laughed, but her strict code made her amusement sound forced. The incident reminded her dimly of something that had happened in Paris, on their honeymoon: something to do with a waiter and wrong change, and not by any means creditable to Johnnie. “But of course he didn’t keep the prize, Mr. Thwaite?”
“Didn’t he just! I see you don’t know Johnnie yet. And the dirty old dog never told me till afterwards that he knew what the questions were going to be.” Mr. Thwaite laughed hugely.
Lina wondered if this were the public-school code of honour about which she had heard so much.
Johnnie laughed too. “Yes, I put it across you all that time.” He caught Lina’s pained gaze and added quickly: “Don’t look so tragic, monkeyface. The Isaiah exam wasn’t taken very seriously.”
“Not that it would have mattered to you, old bean, if it had been,” retorted Mr. Thwaite. “Old Johnnie was supposed to be the finest cribber ever known at the place, Lina. He never did a stroke of work all the time he was there; but he got a prize every year, and ended up in the Sixth. I’ll bet he’d have cribbed his way to a schol. at Oxford, wouldn’t you, old bean, if they hadn’t cut your career a trifle short by—”
“Look here, Beaky, aren’t you being a bit tactless? You ought to know that women don’t understand the what-d’you-call-’ems – what’s the word, monkeyface?”
“Ethics?”
“I expect so. Well, the ethics of cribbing. You’ll be giving Lina all sorts of funny ideas about her poor husband.”
“What?” said Mr. Thwaite. “Oh, I see what you mean. Sorry, old bean. Putting my foot in it again, what? All rot, Lina, anyhow. Cribbing as a fine art, and all that sort of thing. Everyone does it. No good at it myself, but a trier. Sorry, old bean, what?”
“Well, anyhow, what are you doing with yourself in
“Well, Beaky, you old sinner, this is great. How the devil are you, and all that kind of thing?”
“You’re getting fat, old bean,” pronounced Mr. Thwaite in return. “Deuced fat. What? You’ll have to knock his oats off a bit, Mrs. Aysgarth. Here, what’s your wife’s name, old bean? Can’t go on calling her ‘Mrs. Aysgarth,’ I mean. Sounds too damned formal, and all that sort of rot. What?”
Lina stifled an insane request to be called Mrs. Old Bean.
“Her name’s Lina.”
“Lina, what? Damned good name, too,” adjudged Mr. Thwaite loudly. “Call you ‘Lina’ then, may I?”
“Of course,” Lina said, producing a rather forced smile. She had ideas about whom she permitted to use her Christian name and how long they must have known her first.
She dispensed tea and listened, with wandering interest, to the reminiscences of the two men.
For some time these were confined to old This and old That, and what had happened to old Thing. Then Mr. Thwaite’s memories took a more personal turn.
“Remember how you won the Isaiah prize, what? Good God, I shan’t forget that in a hurry. I’ll bet he hasn’t told you about that, Lina, what?”
“No.” Lina roused herself from the worried consideration of a possible menu should unexpected Mr. Thwaite stay to dinner, as Johnnie, most hospitable of men and untroubled by a larder outlook, would certainly invite him to do. “No, I don’t believe he has. What was that?”
“Why, the Chief was deuced keen on Isaiah, and all that sort of rot, and he offered a special prize one term when the Sixth were mugging it up. This old bean, being a school-pre., was in his study one day and saw the paper on the Chief’s desk. So he took a copy of it. Never done a stroke of work, of course. Never did. But he got the prize all right. What about that?”
“Really, Johnnie.” Lina laughed, but her strict code made her amusement sound forced. The incident reminded her dimly of something that had happened in Paris, on their honeymoon: something to do with a waiter and wrong change, and not by any means creditable to Johnnie. “But of course he didn’t keep the prize, Mr. Thwaite?”
“Didn’t he just! I see you don’t know Johnnie yet. And the dirty old dog never told me till afterwards that he knew what the questions were going to be.” Mr. Thwaite laughed hugely.
Lina wondered if this were the public-school code of honour about which she had heard so much.
Johnnie laughed too. “Yes, I put it across you all that time.” He caught Lina’s pained gaze and added quickly: “Don’t look so tragic, monkeyface. The Isaiah exam wasn’t taken very seriously.”
“Not that it would have mattered to you, old bean, if it had been,” retorted Mr. Thwaite. “Old Johnnie was supposed to be the finest cribber ever known at the place, Lina. He never did a stroke of work all the time he was there; but he got a prize every year, and ended up in the Sixth. I’ll bet he’d have cribbed his way to a schol. at Oxford, wouldn’t you, old bean, if they hadn’t cut your career a trifle short by—”
“Look here, Beaky, aren’t you being a bit tactless? You ought to know that women don’t understand the what-d’you-call-’ems – what’s the word, monkeyface?”
“Ethics?”
“I expect so. Well, the ethics of cribbing. You’ll be giving Lina all sorts of funny ideas about her poor husband.”
“What?” said Mr. Thwaite. “Oh, I see what you mean. Sorry, old bean. Putting my foot in it again, what? All rot, Lina, anyhow. Cribbing as a fine art, and all that sort of thing. Everyone does it. No good at it myself, but a trier. Sorry, old bean, what?”
“Well, anyhow, what are you doing with yourself in
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