The Summer of Sir Lancelot

breakfast. She was to him the Amaryllis Milton kept wanting to sport with in the shade. He‘d thought her as much the nightclub type as the girl on the Ovaltine tin, and now she wanted to live it up in the Asquith Club. He didn‘t know much about the place, except its being creepily expensive.
    ‘Just a minor formality, sir,‘ explained the man in the striped waistcoat as Tim vaguely filled up membership forms in the foyer. ‘I really don‘t know why we still bother our guests with it, sir.‘
    ‘I‘d like a quiet table in a corner,‘ Tim addressed the headwaiter as Euphemia appeared from the plushy ladies‘.
    ‘Will you be dining, sir?‘
    ‘No, as a matter of fact, we — ‘
    ‘I‘m ravenous,‘ cut in Euphemia gaily.
    ‘Dining,‘ nodded Tim.
    ‘I want champagne,‘ she announced brightly, sitting down. ‘And oysters.‘
    ‘Oysters! I‘m afraid they‘re out of season.‘
    ‘Then I‘ll have caviar.‘
    ‘They... they don‘t serve it here.‘ Tim hurriedly turned over the menu. ‘We‘ll have a bottle of champagne,‘ he added to the waiter. ‘And some crisps.‘
    ‘This place is quite nice,‘ Euphemia conceded, looking round.
    ‘Well, it has a certain repute, you know.‘
    She puzzled him. Down by Witches‘ Pool she‘d been as delightfully sunny and natural as the weather. Now she was behaving like some jaded actress gritting her teeth with the latest admirer. After all, Tim told himself a shade chillingly, he‘d been captivated by this pretty girl without knowing anything of her background and family, except that she had a highly peculiar uncle. But then, he quickly tried to reassure himself, any girl is likely to seem odd after stuffing bolsters down her bed and dropping from mortuary gates.
    As they danced Euphemia seemed to soften into her Witches‘ Pool mood. ‘I can just imagine Matron‘s face if she knew I was here!‘ she laughed. ‘As for Sister Virtue, I don‘t think the poor dear would ever get over it.‘
    ‘How are you enjoying being a handmaiden of healing?‘ Tim grinned back.
    Euphemia wrinkled her nose. ‘Are there any models here, darling?‘ she asked suddenly.
    ‘Models? What, you mean the real ones you actually see in adverts? I believe they all have to work so hard they go to bed with a glass of milk at ten-thirty.‘
    ‘But how about the men who employ the models? You know, the agencies. Like Collins, McKnight, and Wade. Are any of them here?‘
    Tim laughed. ‘They‘re much more likely to be at home, swallowing alkali for their ulcers.‘
    ‘Look - ‘ Euphemia pointed. ‘Who‘s that man in a macintosh?‘
    ‘Macintosh?‘
    ‘Yes, up in the band.‘
    ‘I suppose he‘s one of the cabaret turns.‘ Tim shrugged his shoulders. ‘Though he doesn‘t seem quite the Asquith‘s usual style.‘
    ‘Why, there‘s another one,‘ she indicated. ‘And another.‘
    ‘It must be some elaborate comic act. Anyway, now the music‘s stopped we‘ll soon find out.‘
     

7
     
    ‘Nothing up my sleeve,‘ asserted Mr Geoffrey Nightrider, MP. ‘Nothing whatsoever. Observe.‘
    He shot his cuffs. He was a tall, bony, bald fellow, with a marked air of dedicated superiority. You felt he would have looked good done in stained glass.
    ‘Here I have a perfectly plain silk handkerchief, as may be purchased in any haberdashery. Kindly note the front...the back. I screw the handkerchief thus in my fist. And behold! The answer‘s a lemon.‘
    With finger and thumb he placed the fruit delicately on the sideboard. Mr Nightrider was a keen amateur magician. He entertained his family with it generously, and all his friends were privileged to sit through an hour or two‘s tricks after dining.
    ‘My next,‘ he continued, still looking saintly, ‘will be the Afghan Bands. Nothing, I assure you, up my sleeve. Ah, good morning, Mrs Chuffey,‘ he broke off, hastily shoving his implements into a drawer.
    ‘Good morning, sir. Going to be another scorcher later on, I‘d say.‘
    ‘My breakfast,‘ he announced, rubbing his hands. Though a man with strict views on self-indulgence, his fifty press-ups every morning in the bedroom had left him a confirmed breakfast-addict.
    ‘Oh, no, sir. This tray‘s for the Master, sir.‘
    ‘Indeed?‘ He looked at her with the expression of a saint whose halo had fused at a particularly awkward moment.
    ‘I just came to get the best dining room cruet, sir.‘
    ‘Mrs Chuffey — ‘ He surveyed bleakly the steaming porringer,