Death of My Aunt Read online

  Death

  of

  My Aunt

  C. H. B. Kitchin

  PERENNIAL LIBRARY

  Harper & Row, Publishers

  New York, Cambridge, San Francisco

  London, Mexico City, Sao Paulo, Sydney

  A hardcover edition of this book was first published in England in 1929 by The Hogarth Press Ltd. It is here reprinted by arrangement with Francis King, the Executor of the Estate of C.H.B. Kitchin.

  DEATH OF MY AUNT. Copyright 1929 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Copyright renewed 1957 by C.H.B. Kitchin. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews For information address Harold Ober Associates, 40 East 49th Street, New York, N.Y. 10017.

  First perennial library edition published 1984. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Kitchin, C. H. B. (Clifford Henry Benn), 1895-1967. Death of my aunt.

  Reprint. Originally published: London : 1929. I. Title.

  PR6021.I7D4 1984 823'.912 83-48361

  ISBN 0-06-080682-6 (pbk.) _

  84 85 86 87 88 1098765432 1

  To

  MY MOTHER

  I

  Friday Night: London

  UNTIL half-past six, the fifteenth of June was much the same as many other Fridays. Business was slack, and my work did not fill the hours which I had to spend in the office. At six o'clock I took my grimy hat from its peg, and after the innumerable "good-nights" which commercial etiquette seems to demand, walked down Throgmorton Street without enthusiasm on my way to the tube. A few dispirited jobbers still lingered in the "street". The afternoon was wet, and rather cold.

  In the train, I looked languidly at the evening paper. The financial pages were dull, and the others were full of heroic achievements, such as Atlantic flights, Channel swims, and rescues from fire—deeds which I knew I could never emulate. I had, indeed, little to look forward to during the weekend. That evening I was to dine in my rooms, after which I was to meet a friend and go with him to the cinema. I had volunteered to go to the office on Saturday morning to help with the books. Beyond this, I had no plans till Sunday afternoon, for which 1 had invited myself to some friends at Chislehurst. Once or twice I wished I had arranged to stay with my mother and stepfather, who lived at Summer Coombe, a village near Clevedon in Somersetshire. The visit would have given me a change from London, though it could not have been exhilarating. But my married sister, Isobel, was on the verge of having her first baby, and it was clearly my duty to keep away. I have two sisters, both older than myself. The elder one had been married for about a year to a subaltern stationed near Bristol, and had come to my mother's for the great event. My other sister lives aimlessly at home, hoping, I suppose, to marry too. My stepfather, whom my mother had married in 1920, is a clergyman. His living is not worth much. My mother had only three hundred a year in her own right and four hundred under my father's will, and was by no means an economical housewife. Indeed, life at St. Peter's Vicarage, seen from one standpoint, was a series of financial struggles. Isobel's choice of a charming but penniless husband intensified the strain. I myself had one hundred a year under my father's will. The firm of stockbrokers with whom I worked paid me two pounds a week. They admitted that it was only a nominal salary and did not expect much for it. The bulk of my income was supposed to be made out of half-commission, which meant that I had to spend too much time getting acquainted with people with whom I had nothing in common, and being polite to those whom I should have preferred to ignore. My career, however, was of my own choosing, and on the whole I liked it. Money—even other people's—has always interested me.

  It was about half-past six when I reached my "bachelor-chambers" in Gloucester Place. I was still thinking about Summer Coombe, and hoping that Isobel would cause no alarm, when, on opening my private front door, I saw a telegram lying on the mat.

  "Warren, 965 Gloucester Place, London, W." Aunt Catherine anxious see you come to-night if possible week-end.

  "Hannibal Cartwright."

  Whenever something had to be done in a hurry, my immediate impulse is to sit down and smoke a cigarette. I did so, and began to consider whether I should obey the summons.

  My Aunt Catherine—my only tante a heritage, as a friend of mine used to put it—lived at Macebury, a town of about forty thousand inhabitants on the Great Northern line. She was my mother's eldest sister—the most beautiful, at one time, in a family of beauties—and had married a rich man named John Dennis, who died at the end of 1919 and left her with at least half a million. It is true that the business out of which he had made his fortune was not faring well, as I knew from the low price of its shares, but my uncle had died in time for his executors to float it as a public company at the peak of the post-war boom. The proceeds, invested in gilt-edged stocks when they were at their lowest, so far from dwindling, had increased by about twenty per cent. Over this money my aunt had absolute control and absolute power of disposition. By virtue of it, she became queen of the family. It will perhaps save future digressions if I give a list of those who, in 1928, submitted to her rule.

  Group I.

  (a) Mrs. Oldmarsh (my mother), aged (probably) 54, and through her, the Reverend Ambrose Oldmarsh (my stepfather).

  (b) Isobel Baldrey (my married sister), 29, and through her, Frank Baldrey, Lieutenant in the South Gloucester Dragoons (my brother-in-law).

  (c) Monica Lucy Warren (my unmarried sister), 27.

  (D) Myself, 26.

  Group II.

  Hannibal Cartwright, 38, Aunt Catherine's second husband, of whom more anon.

  Group III.

  (a) My uncle, Terence Carvel, 59, formerly barrister on the North-eastern circuit (my mother's only brother). Through him, his wife, Anne Carvel, 47.

  (6) Robert Carvel (Bob), 27, son of the above, solicitor, unmarried.

  (c) Augusta Teirson, 25, daughter of Terence and Anne Carvel, wife of Sir James Teirson, a penniless baronet twice her age. Permanently resident with her husband in a hovel on the Riviera. No children.

  (d) Muriel Carvel, 22, daughter of Terence and Anne Carvel.

  (E) Henrietta Carvel, 20, daughter of Terence and Anne Carvel.

  All members of this group, except the Teirsons, lived in Macebury.

  Group IV.

  My Aunt, Fanny Carvel, spinster, aged (probably) 56, usually resident at Bude with a school-friend. She had, however, come to Wesley's Hotel, de Vere Gardens, early in June, and was staying there (as far as any of us knew) on Friday, June 15.

  Group V.

  Elizabeth Dennis, spinster, 61?

  Harry Dennis, solicitor, 58?, and his plain wife, Mary.

  Luke Dennis, solicitor, 55?, unmarried.

  Maria Hall, widow, 65?, formerly Maria Dennis, mother of several children, none of whom I had ever met.

  The Dennises mentioned in this group are brothers or sisters of John Dennis, Aunt Catherine's first husband. Although John Dennis was a rich man, none of his relations were very well off, and they were sadly disappointed to find, on his death, that they had no reversionary interest in his money. They considered they had a moral claim on Aunt Catherine's estate. Perhaps they had, though, of course, they were not connected with her by blood. Harry and Luke Dennis were moderately prosperous and lived in Macebury. Elizabeth and Maria Hall lived in a tumble-down house eight miles away. Elizabeth had hardly any money of her own, and Maria lived on the irregular doles sent to her by her children. About a dozen of these children were farming in Canada, and I think there were some more in England.

  My aunt Catherine, who was, I suppose, just over si
xty-three, lived at Otho House. The name used to send us, as children, into hysterical laughter. It was a solid, square house dating from the middle of the last century, and had a garden of six acres, which, on its eastern side, adjoined the principal road running northwards from Macebury. The lodge gates were about a mile and a half from the middle of the town. The inside of the house, except for one or two newly decorated rooms, suggested the Boer War. As a schoolboy I used to spend a large part of my holidays at Otho House, and suffered from Uncle John's Nonconformist conscience. I still remember a wet Sunday in August when my new railway train was confiscated lest I should break the Sabbath. Aunt Catherine never pretended to care for children, and I suppose it was really very kind of her to let me stay with her. I did not enjoy my visits, and as I grew up they became much rarer. After Uncle John's death, Aunt Catherine was such an important person, that her invitations were almost royal commands. They were not very frequent, however, I found, as I grew older, that association with her could be made tolerable if I treated her as a great and experienced personage, deferred to her opinion in everything, and never assumed for myself any knowledge of the world. Nothing was more galling to her than that one should mention an hotel in which she had not stayed, a play which she had not seen, a piece of music which she had not heard. Like many rich people, she acted as if her wealth gave her not only infinite power but infinite wisdom.

  Her worst period was about 1922. Just as she was preparing to enjoy Uncle John's money and to move into exalted circles, she developed a painful skin disease in the face, which was badly treated by an incompetent doctor. In the end the trouble was cured, but her looks had almost disappeared, and with them many of her ambitions. It seemed, indeed, as if she had made up her mind to devote herself to her own relations—or rather, that they should devote themselves to her—when, in 1926, she suddenly married a second time.

  The family behaved very badly about Uncle Hannibal. I have heard him described as "fortune-hunter", and "member of the lower classes". Aunt Catherine gave out that he was the son of a clergyman, but we translated clergyman by "Nonconformist pastor", and my Uncle Terence declared that Hannibal's real name was Habakkuk. Yet Hannibal suited him better; for there was little of the chapel-goer or even the church-goer, about him. He was a man of under forty, big and well made, with a large square head and face, blue eyes, ginger hair, and moustache. He might have been a physical training instructor. He was clearly attractive to most women, and I always thought the question, "What on earth induced her to marry him?" easily answered. Indeed, I had no doubt that Aunt Catherine married him for what we may call "love".

  When she first met him, he was the owner or, more probably, the manager, of the garage in which she kept her car. He played the part, I was told, of the gentleman ruined by the war and forced to turn his hand to trade. My aunt, at the time, had no regular chauffeur, and, as a great privilege, Uncle Hannibal used sometimes to drive her himself. To this honour she responded, particularly on long excursions in the country, by sitting in front with him. There is no doubt that her money attracted him, but it is absurd to say that he married her under false pretences. His charm lay not in his antecedents, but in what he was.

  Partly through contrariness and partly because I was glad to see the Carvel vanity affronted, I was my new uncle's only supporter. I think he took me for an ally, and though we had little in common we were friendly from the first. He even entrusted me with five hundred pounds with which to speculate for him, and did not complain when I lost him money. I appreciated it very much, especially as he had so little. Apart from some financial correspondence, my knowledge of him was restricted to three week-ends at Otho House.

  Whether I should see the Cartwrights that evening, or Saturday morning, or not at all, I had now to decide. For a while my likes and dislikes fought within me. Why had Aunt Catherine sent for me? Probably just to see if I would come, like M. Jourdain in Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. How much did I want to go to the cinema that evening? How much trouble would it be to undo my arrangements, and telegraph to my mother, if I did go? A telegram to my mother was necessary on Isobel's account. Perhaps I ought not to go so far away? It would be difficult to get from Macebury to Summer Coombe in an emergency. Yet Isobel was a healthy young woman, and even my mother was barely worried. Would Macebury be more boring than an unemployed Saturday afternoon in London? Perhaps. But why had Aunt Catherine sent for me? Curiosity, in the end, made me decide to go.

  I rang up King's Cross, and found that I could not catch a train before 8.17. I next wrote a telegram to Uncle Hannibal announcing my arrival, and another telegram to my mother, saying, "Going Otho week-end. Hope all is well." I rang the bell and had these sent off at once. After this, I telephoned to the junior partner in my firm, and as he was out, left a message saying that I was summoned to the bedside of a sick aunt and could not come to the office the next day. This meant that he would have to go himself, but as I knew he was spending the week-end in London it was of small consequence. I had then to get into touch with the friend who was to join me at the cinema, and succeeded after four wrong numbers. It only remained now for me to write a postcard to Chislehurst, pack, and eat a hurried meal. By the time I reached the station, I felt as if I had finished an obstacle race. If I believed in premonitions, I should say that the obstacles were signs against my going.

  II

  Friday Night: Macebury

  THE train arrived punctually, and before I had time to get a porter I found Uncle Hannibal shaking my hand and picking up my heavy bag, which he carried for me to Aunt Catherine's car. Dace, the chauffeur, I noticed, made no attempt to help him when he put the bag on the front seat, and barely returned my "Good-evening". I remembered him with dislike from my last visit—a well-made, wiry little fellow with shrewd eyes.

  "It's awfully good of you to come on the spur of the moment," my uncle said, with obsequious friendliness.

  "Not at all," I murmured. "It's nice to see you again. How is Aunt Catherine?"

  "Oh," he said, "she's really very well. Of course her heart's not O.K., but it's nothing to worry about, except I wish she'd lie up a bit more. When you're getting on, you can't take lib—"

  He stopped suddenly, as if it occurred to him that Aunt Catherine would have disapproved of his reference to her "getting on". I longed to ask him why she wanted to see me, but thought it wiser to leave him to tell me. Instead, I began to talk about our other relatives with that guilty effusiveness which often attends family reunions.

  "I hope Uncle Terence is well?"

  "Oh yes. He's been away fishing in Wales for the last week. He's due back in a few days."

  "Is Aunt Anne with him?"

  "No. She's at home—poor woman."

  "Poor woman?"

  "Oh, I suppose you haven't heard. Teirson's got into a silly scrape of some sort at Cannes, and has been threatening to blow his brains out or something. Anne got a wire from Augusta last Saturday, and a letter on Tuesday. Augusta seems to want her mother to go down there. Of course that's out of the question."

  "Why?"

  "Well, for one thing, I don't think she's fit to travel. As a matter of fact, she went to town to see a specialist to-day. Muriel went with her."

  "This is bad news. What is it?"

  "I don't quite know. It may be nothing, after all. She gets nervy about herself, I believe."

  "I am sorry. I hope it is only her imagination. But oughtn't Uncle Terence to come back, in view of all these troubles?"

  "I'm not sure that Terence has been told."

  "That's odd, isn't it?"

  He did not answer, and I thought it best to change the subject.

  "Mother seems quite happy about Isobel," I said.

  "Oh, of course, your sister. 1 meant to ask about her. I'm awfully glad to hear that."

  "I rather wondered if I ought to come," I continued, leading to the subject which I wanted him to approach, "in case anything goes wrong, but your wire seemed rather urgent and I thought I'd risk i
t."

  "By Jove, yes. To tell you the honest truth, I'd clean forgotten about Isobel. Just shows how people get out of touch when they live a long way away, doesn't it? I hope you're not upset. Your aunt suddenly wanted to see you, and I thought you mightn't have anything on for the week-end. I'm afraid you must have had a rush. Did you get the wire in good time?"

  "When I got home, about half-past six."

  "Lord, I thought the Stock Exchange shut at four. That's why I wired to Gloucester Place."

  I spent the rest of the drive explaining how, though official dealings stopped at four o'clock, stockbrokers' offices could not close till much later.

  "Well, here we are," he said, opening the door and jumping out. Then he turned to Dace.

  "Take Mr. Warren's bag upstairs, will you, and unpack it. Is it locked Malcolm?"

  "No," I said, amused to notice that Uncle Hannibal called me Mr. Warren to the family servants, while any other relation would have said "Mr. Malcolm". Unobservant with my eyes, I prided myself on seizing psychological nuances. Dace gave a grunt which sounded not unlike "Righto", and drove the car round to the garage. Otho House acquired a garage when it acquired Uncle Hannibal. Till that time, Aunt Catherine had been content with my uncle's garage in the town.

  My uncle unlocked the front door and we went inside, through a vestibule, where I left my hat, coat and umbrella, into the hall, which, with its nondescript panelling and archaic lighting, reminded me always of one of the less sacred parts of a church.

  "How about a spot of whisky before we turn in?"

  I agreed gladly. Uncle Hannibal had his merits. John Dennis had been a convinced teetotaler, and had so indoctrinated Aunt Catherine against alcohol that, during her widowhood, she never had any in the house. She had given way to her second husband, and the drinks were openly waiting for us in the drawing-room.