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  Mark Lambert’s Supper

  First published in 1954

  Copyright: John Stewart Literary Management Ltd. 1954-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of J.I.M. Stewart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755130278 9780755130276 Print

  0755133269 9780755133260 Kindle

  0755133579 9780755133574 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  John Innes Mackintosh Stewart (who also wrote as Michael Innes) was born in Edinburgh where his father was Director of Education. He attended Edinburgh Academy before going up to Oriel College, Oxford where he was awarded a first class degree in English and won the Matthew Arnold Memorial Prize and was named a Bishop Frazer scholar. After a short interlude travelling with AJP Taylor in Austria, including studying Freudian psychoanalysis for a year, he embarked on an edition of Florio’s translation of Montaigne’s Essays. This subsequently helped him secure a post teaching English at Leeds University.

  In 1932, Stewart married Margaret Hardwick, who practised medicine, and they subsequently had three sons and two daughters. By 1935, he had been awarded the Jury Chair at the University of Adelaide in Australia as Professor of English and had also completed his first detective novel, ‘Death at the President’s Lodging’, published under the pseudonym ‘Michael Innes’. This was an immediate success and part of a long running series centred on ‘Inspector Appleby’, his primary character when writing as ‘Innes’. There were almost fifty titles completed under the ‘Innes’ banner during his career.

  In 1946, he returned to the UK and spent two years at Queen’s University in Belfast, before being appointed Student (Fellow and Tutor) at Christ Church, Oxford. He was later to hold the post of Reader in English Literature of Oxford University and upon his retirement was made an Emeritus Professor. Whilst never wanting to leave his beloved Oxford permanently, he did manage to fit into his busy schedule a visiting Professorship at the University of Washington and was also honoured by other Universities in the UK.

  Stewart wrote many works under his own name, including twenty-one works of fiction (which contained the highly acclaimed quintet entitled ‘A Staircase in Surrey’, centred primarily in Oxford, but with considerable forays elsewhere, especially Italy), several short story collections, and over nine learned works on the likes of Shakespeare, Kipling and Hardy. He was also a contributor to many academic publications, including a major section on modern writers for the Oxford History of English Literature. He died in 1994, the last published work being an autobiography: ‘Myself and Michael Innes’.

  J.I.M. Stewart’s fiction is greatly admired for its wit, plots and literary quality, whilst the non-fiction is acknowledged as being definitive.

  Part One

  ENGLAND

  ONE

  Anthea Lambert was the child of genius and old age. She could recall no nursery time with the fruit of this knowledge yet un-plucked, nor any report of it as other than largely tart upon the palate. For long it had been possible to suppose that maturity would wring out a different savour, but this she now held to be disproved by the event. Short of thirty only by a small cluster of years, Anthea was willing to acknowledge that a fully adult sagacity was necessarily hers. Yet she still felt perplexingly more than plain pride in being Mark Lambert’s daughter. And certainly the climate of the moment held out no promise of simplification. A young woman can scarcely fail to find a hint of bewilderment, of embarrassment even, in the spectacle of her country’s weightier cultural engines pounding their way through celebrations prompted by the hundredth anniversary of her father’s birth.

  She ought to have planned to be in Seattle or Tokyo. Remaining in Oxford, she now darkly saw, was positively to have courted a doom, and only while in the lab could she feel tolerably secure. In that world of absorbed strategies and remote concentrations few had even heard of Mark Lambert and none judged him worth talking about. Yet this in itself was irritating. Anthea made some effort to be a philistine – there had been that in the environment of her adolescence which made it her first obvious line – but heredity and tradition were forces which she had to admit adept at breaking through. She knew her father’s novels – at least the four “great” ones – well. It was an unobtrusive knowledge. And she believed – but it was an unobtrusive belief – that her companions at the bench would be more interesting people if they knew them too.

  At the moment however the lab was decidedly a refuge. Within its bleak angularities forces of incredible violence were controlled by men of unassuming manners and restricted conversation, and even the titanic wind-tunnel performed its prodigies behind glass. But beyond those comfortable walls, through the quadrangles and around the towers of the mouldering city, the centenary blew in treacherous gusts, as if threatening at any moment to catch at her summer skirts to some effect of mild but disconcerting denudation. Anthea hated being caught unpoised. There was perhaps heredity here too. Only with her father – it was sometimes said – the dislike had extended to being caught unposed.

  At least the lecture was over. In her rather new M.A. gown she was walking away from that now. On her left Mr Halliday’s shop abounded in unicorns’ tusks, mediaeval chessmen, Hepplewhite chairs; on her right Queen’s asserted the first subtle curve of the High. The sleepy immemorial marriage of commerce and the cloister, inexpugnably reposeful despite the hectoring traffic, commonly held for her more appeal than was perhaps proper in a young woman already possessed of some reputation in the unexpected field of aerodynamics. But she was hardly aware of it now. There had come to her as a matter of sudden surprise the fact that she was unaccompanied. Had she, at the portals of the Examination Schools, disengaged herself with some abruptness from academic dignitaries civilly concerned to treat her with a consideration proper to the occasion? It was only too probable. Indeed she could now remember circumambulating the Vice-Chancellor – a manoeuvre requiring pronounced lateral movement followed by a resolute squeeze – and making a quite childish dash for open air. Anthea flushed as she walked – and glimpsed through a teashop window a group of undergraduates admiring her across a breastwork of unseasonable crumpets. Being in both senses fair, she was not often successful in blushing unseen. Yet confusion seldom carried the day with her, and as she dodged between buses to turn up Catte Street she applied a tolerably disinterested curiosity to the lecture and her own responses to it. Disinterested curiosity was Anthea Lambert’s notion of the safest guide through life. She believed herself to be gaining a happily increased command of it with the years.

  The novels of Mark Lambert, it seemed, had far more life in them than might be supposed. Scratched by the skilful thumbnail, or in this or that fundamental aspect held deftly to the light, they revealed every promise of o
utlasting the hitherto more reliable-seeming productions of George Meredith. This had been the theme of the professor from Cambridge – and Anthea was reminded of former studies of her own in the subject known as the Strength of Materials. But was it so self-evident as the professor assumed that durability is a touchstone in art? Certainly if one constructed a complicated laboratory machine one must have credit in proportion as one minimised friction and other abrasive or fatiguing forces. But why was a novel better if it approximated more to a reliable internal combustion engine than to a reliable bomb? And was the novelist himself likely to be more pleased with the notion of purring efficiently down the centuries than of contriving – conceivably to no other senses than his own – a single lovely bang? Anthea didn’t know. And she suspected that the professor didn’t know either, but had lost sight of the fact through long absorption in a trade favouring vague assumptions.

  The garden of St John’s, a last outpost of Oxford’s crumbling monasticism to the north, lay behind her before Anthea reflected that there was a defensive arrogance in these speculations. The lecture had in fact alarmed her. In addition to the odd old people whom such occasions mysteriously attract, there had been quite a crowd of undergraduates. It seemed indubitable that her father was having more than a centenary. He was having a vogue. Or – as the writer of the middle-page article in that week’s Times Literary Supplement expressed it – one hundred years had brought Mark Lambert slowly but inevitably to his true place in English letters. Anthea wondered if the article was by Miss Bave. Her father, after all, belonged decidedly to Miss Bave’s “period”, and now he was being bowed into one of its more prominent positions. Miss Bave’s manner was severe but her manners were reliable; she would not with any emphasis or rashness enthuse over a very junior colleague as the child of genius. Nevertheless Anthea had more than once been aware that the glance directed at her across St Cecilia’s High Table took in more than a young woman modestly accomplished in mathematical and physical pursuits. To Miss Bave’s vision, ghosts must hover at Anthea’s either elbow – and behind her, against the blank panelling of the unvenerable hall, did there mirage up a Tuscan sky, a small cortile, and the novelist at his task? Legend had accreted round the Villa Pastorelli; for long indeed legend had appeared to make all the running, with reputation a poor second and true fame nowhere. Had Miss Bave conceivably designs upon the legend – a plan to pierce it in the interest of what is called a critical biography? This was a new and disagreeable suspicion in Mark Lambert’s daughter. She slackened her pace as she entered the University Parks.

  In front of her the small considered landscape composed itself round the patient cricketers at their summer-long over, and beyond the flat-roofed laboratories an old bell called invisible dons with slow insistent syllables to placid conference. Recumbent Ethiopians read the Economist or the Spectator; within the shade of large indifferent trees beardless sages defined each for the other the modified position impelled upon them as a consequence of the latest meeting of the Socratic Club; at a farther periphery couples of inferior cultural pretension lay entwined in grass. For seconds the enchanted stasis was violated only at a quadrupedal level, as the faithful pets of the neighbouring learned suburb moved quietly about the Parks in the untiring pursuit of canine knowledge.

  On the field there came a tiny stir. The wicket-keeper crouched, the bowler swung his arm, the ball rolled back down the pitch and the clop of the careful stroke floated lazily to the boundary; then for a moment again everything was still. In the sky it was another matter. There, high above the traditional tranquillities of Oxford’s June, vast bombers cruised amid impermanent archipelagos, and jet fighters raced for the horizon as if in a supersonic cricket of their own. Anthea came to a stop. One of the planes interested her.

  “How did you find the lecture, Miss Lambert?”

  A young man had appeared from nowhere. Anthea was unsurprised; it was a facility which she had often had occasion to note young men as possessing – and particularly, it might be, tall young men with loose clothes, crew cuts, and the easy confidence of Harvard or Princeton. Garth Dauncey was an acquaintance, if a slight one, and entitled by his nationality thus to drift up upon a question. If a moment passed before she found a reply the reason lay perhaps in her awareness of a glance which, although earnestly bent upon her, had a little neglected to assume an appropriate cast of simple interrogation. “The lecture, Mr Dauncey? It appeared to go down well. Only I didn’t feel that it would much have strained the attention of the shades concerned.”

  If Anthea Lambert frowned as she spoke it was only as disliking what she heard herself utter. The deliverance had been in what she thought of as her Senior Common Room manner. The young man however appeared to regard himself as rebuked, and turned half round to view the cricket. “I wish I had the hang of this game. Why was that fellow out a moment ago?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t notice. I was looking at the Globemasters.”

  “The Globemasters?” Dauncey gravely surveyed the spectators. “I guess I haven’t met them.”

  Anthea glanced with some suspicion at her companion. “You ought to know the Globemasters. They’re your own planes from Brize Norton, and about the biggest thing in the air.”

  “I see.” Dauncey redirected his serious gaze to the heavens and then pointed with an athlete’s swiftness at a streak of silver near the zenith. “Would that be one of my own planes too?”

  “No, indeed. That’s our P792 from Boscombe Down. That it should be in the sky over Oxford is more exciting than anything I’ve been aware of for some time.”

  “Than anything?” For a moment Dauncey appeared disposed to amplify this question. But instead he simply asked, “It’s very fast?”

  “Very. A single turbo-jet with a 40,000lb thrust. Just at present, I doubt if you can touch it.”

  “I doubt if I can.” For a moment Dauncey continued to scan the heavens with civil interest. “If you don’t find the cricket all that exciting, shall we walk round the pond?”

  “Certainly.” And Anthea set off at a brisk pace. “Do you like my father’s books?”

  “Very much.” As he answered the sudden question the young man glanced at her swiftly and warily. “Very much, indeed.” He fell silent. She could see that he was frowning.

  “Are you writing a thesis, Mr Dauncey, on a literary subject?”

  This time he looked at her in alarm – and then to her confusion burst out laughing. “Is it awful? Do folks pester?”

  “Not very much. But it’s always a possibility. And particularly, of course, just now.”

  “Well, I find this centenary kind of strange myself. You see, I have some reason to be interested in Mark Lambert’s books.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t get me wrong.” Dauncey was still amused – but at the same time he could be discerned as oddly perplexed and hesitant. “It’s nothing to do with work. My dissertation is on Landor, Miss Lambert. He once gave your father tea and some incomprehensible advice on Greek versification. Mark Lambert was thirteen at the time, so I doubt whether you can help me to a fuller view of the occasion . . . If that isn’t a patient swan.”

  They had reached the little pond. Waterfowl fussed about its surface, disdainful of abundant bread cast before them by a thronging infantry from the nurseries of North Oxford. In sedge by the margin the swans had built their nest, and now the male bird was sitting, vigilantly at gaze with those of the passers-by who paused, compelled by the mystery of the living creature intent upon creation.

  Anthea was glad of the moment’s distraction. Her childhood had been prolific of occasions for wondering whether such interestingness as she seemed to possess proceeded from qualities intrinsic or extrinsic. In her relations with literary pilgrims to Settignano she had often been cast as a stepping-stone to better things – any good opinion of herself as it formed in her ingenuous mind being dissipated by a candid transfer of the general attention to such more prizeable relics as Mestrovic’s bust or the m
anuscript of Lucia’s Changeling. And now Garth Dauncey was a literary pilgrim – all Americans of his sort had decidedly to be so regarded – and about this encounter with him there had been something not wholly casual. It was her sense that he had taken a premeditated step; her obscurer sense that he had thereby landed himself in unexpected uncertainty. Yet all this, she told herself, argued no more than a humiliating self-consciousness out of which her unchallengeable maturity ought long since to have led her. And in reaction from the shabbiness of imputing a design she now laid her hand on the young man’s arm and drew him to a halt as if to admire the swan. “I wonder,” she said, “how many eggs?”

  “How many eggs?” He had looked at her with a flash of pleasure in which, for its brief moment, any interest in Mark Lambert had been disturbingly remote. “There were four – perhaps five – the other day.”

  “There may be eight. There could be ten. I’d like to know.” Anthea took a step forward. The swan stirred its wings, thrust forward its head and hissed. “But of course he won’t move.”

  Dauncey laughed. “Perhaps I can scare him away. I’d like to satisfy your insistent numerical sense.”

  “Leave him alone . . . Why do you say I have that?”

  “Scientists are always counting. How many thrusts—was it?—in a turbo-jet. How many eggs in a nest. But have you ever decided how many novels your father wrote?”

  “How many . . . ?” Anthea frowned – at a loss before a question that seemed only inept, and puzzled by a hint of unaccountable meaning in Dauncey’s tone. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Never mind.” Abruptly he turned again towards the nest. “Perhaps I can get him off.” He clapped his hands sharply and the swan once more raised its wings and angrily hissed. Two elderly women who were admiring the bird turned their gaze upon Dauncey and frowned disapproval. The President of Magdalen, who had been similarly engaged, blushed painfully above his venerable beard and hurried away. But the young man, eager and determined, leant out over the pond and clapped again. Hissing yet more menacingly, the swan made a thrusting movement with its head, but otherwise remained immobile on the nest. An absorbed small boy, without much altering the passivity of his countenance and his gaze, directed at Dauncey a sustained and high-pitched yell – whether of encouragement or censure, it was impossible to say.