A Buyers Market - Anthony Powell [72]
“Yes?” he asked abruptly.
My first estimate of Barnby, whom I immediately guessed this to be, the raisonneur so often quoted at the party by Mr. Deacon as inhabiting the top floor of the house, was not wholly favourable; nor, as I learnt later, was his own assessment of myself. He looked about twenty-six or twenty-seven, dark, thick-set, and rather puffed under the eyes. There was the impression of someone who knew how to look after his own interests, though in a balanced and leisurely manner. I explained that I had come to see Mr. Deacon.”
“Have you an appointment?”
“No.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“Mr. Deacon is not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Cornwall.”
“For long?”
“No idea.”
This allegedly absolute ignorance of the duration of a landlord’s retirement to the country seemed scarcely credible in a tenant whose life, at least as presented in Mr. Deacon’s anecdotes, was lived at such close range to the other members of the household. However, the question, put in a somewhat different form, achieved no greater success. Barnby stared hard, and without much friendliness. I saw that I should get no further with him at this rate, and requested that he would inform Mr. Deacon, on his return, of my call.
“What name?”
“Jenkins.”
At this, Barnby became on the spot more accommodating. He opened the door wider and came out on to the step.
“Didn’t you take Edgar to Milly Andriadis’s party?” he asked, in a different tone.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“He was in an awful state the next day,” Barnby said. “Worried, too, about losing so many copies of that rag he hawks round. I believe he had to pay for them out of his own pocket. Anyway, Edgar is too old for that kind of thing.”
He spoke this last comment sadly, though without implication of disapproval. I mentioned the unusual circumstances that had brought Mr. Deacon and myself to the party. Barnby listened in a somewhat absent manner, and then made two or three inquiries regarding the names of other guests. He seemed, in fact, more interested in finding out who had attended the party than in hearing a more specific account of how Mr. Deacon had received his invitation, or had behaved while he was there.
“Did you run across a Mrs. Wentworth?” he asked. “Rather a handsome girl.”
“She was pointed out to me. We didn’t meet.”
“Was she with Donners?”
“Later in the evening. She was talking to a Balkan royalty when I first saw her.”
“Theodoric?”
“Yes.”
“Had Theodoric collected anyone else?”
“Lady Ardglass.”
“I thought as much,” said Barnby. “I wish I’d managed to get there. I’ve met Mrs. Andriadis—but I can’t say I really know her.”
He nodded gravely, more to himself than in further comment to me, seeming to admit by this movement the justice of his own absence from the party. For a moment or two there was silence between us. Then he said: “Why not come in for a minute? You know, all sorts of people ask for Edgar. He likes some blackmailers admitted, but by no means all of them. One has to be careful.”
I explained that I had not come to blackmail Mr. Deacon.
“Oh, I guessed that almost at once,” said Barnby. “But I was doing a bit of cleaning when you rang—the studio gets filthy—and the dust must have confused my powers of differentiation.”
All this was evidently intended as some apology for earlier gruffness. As I followed up a narrow staircase, I assured him that I had no difficulty in grasping that caution might be prudent where Mr. Deacon’s friends were concerned. In answer to this Barnby expressed himself very plainly regarding the majority of Mr. Deacon’s circle