Death and Miss Dane Page 2

  Only one person had slipped past the barricades: Mrs. Mitchell. Collecting for POPPY day or Lifeboat day or Alexandra Rose day, she had called at the house and the General had apparently felt bound to see her. She was his only visitor, but Paul knew from Philippa that she was a frequent one.

  He had entered a deeply-wooded stretch of the path; the sun filtered through the trees, and he walked on a damp, dappled carpet, along twists and turns so confusing that only one long familiar with the wood's secrets could have found a way. Then he stepped out on to the drive of Sanctuary and made his way to the door.

  His summons was answered by an aged maid, and he was told that the General was expecting him. Following the woman into the house, he saw that she was leading him to a large double door at the end of a corridor, and he knew what was beyond: the 30-foot-long, glass-enclosed room that his father had added three years before his death to the south side of Sanctuary; a room that Lady Saracen had made her own, naming it her winter garden.

  The maid opened the door and ushered him in, and Paul saw at once that all traces of his mother’s occupancy had vanished.

  The room, once warmly feminine, had held her long, low cane chairs, her books, her plants, her sewing; airy Venetian blinds had hung along the wide expanse of glass. Now the blinds had vanished and the room stood open on three sides to the magnificent view of terrace and lawns in the foreground, sloping hills and wide fields and the sea beyond. The room was now a man’s room: a study, and more than a study—a living room; there were bookshelves and a writing table, a sideboard and a small dining table.

  The General, tall and spare, was rising from his chair.

  “Ah; come in, won’t you? Nice of you to have come up so promptly. Sit down over there—you can see the view.”

  Paul sat down. He had not set eyes on the general since the negotiations for the sale of the house had been completed, but he thought him little changed; his hair was perhaps thinner, but his glance was as keen and as shrewd, his lips as firm, his manner as abrupt and authoritative as ever.

  “Well, now,” said the general, “I’ll tell you why I asked you to come up and see me.” He shifted in his chair to face Paul fully. “You know the lodge?”

  Paul knew it. It had been a derelict cottage at the top of the hill, not far from Sanctuary. His father had bought it, rebuilt and renamed it and had used it as a chauffeur’s cottage.

  “For the past four months,” went on the General, “my sister has been living in it.”

  Paul could not conceal his surprise; the words brought home to him as nothing else could have done, the gulf that existed between the General and the rest of the valley. Nobody else in Fern Valley could have possibly have had a sister visiting them for even a week without the news being circulated throughout the town.

  The General, seeing his expression, gave a gruff laugh.

  “No, you didn’t know,” he said. “We’re rather cut off up here. As I tried to tell you when I bought the place, I came here with one idea in mind: to lead my own life. I’m a greedy reader, and I love good music, and I told myself that when I came to this house, I’d begin as I meant to go on: keeping away from all local contacts. I didn't know who the residents of Fern Valley were, but I knew from past experience that if I allowed one person in, the rest would follow. If I accepted one invitation, I’d have to accept a dozen. So I saw to it that up here, we’d be self-supporting. I’ve wanted nobody and I’ve seen nobody—except your future mother-in-law, Mrs. Mitchell, who’s a sensible woman and hasn’t pressed me to return her visits.”

  There was a pause. The General held out his glass and Paul refilled it for the third time.

  “Welcome,” said the General grimly, “to my sister. Her name is Mrs. Zimmerman. She lived in France until her husband died a few months ago, and then she decided to come to England—and I offered her the lodge, making it a condition that she lived there as I lived here: that is, without getting involved with anybody in Fern Valley. Well, she came, and she brought an excessive amount of luggage and arrayed all her things round her and settled herself, and I suppose that makes her reluctant to pack up again and go. But…I want her to get out. I’m putting the job in your hands.”

  Paul hesitated, a dislike of the assignment filling his mind. Before he could speak, the General had pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and had glanced at it.

  “I’ve got to go out; I shan’t be back until lunch time,” he said. “You can ring me up tomorrow and tell me how you got on.” He pulled himself stiffly out of his chair and went to one of the wide glass doors and opened it. “I daresay you know your way through the woods?”

  “Yes. But could you tell me—”

  “Mind your step,” cautioned the General. “The path's pretty overgrown in places. Good morning to you.”

  The door closed. Paul, with nothing to do but walk away, felt with more amusement than resentment that the General had underestimated his powers of eviction; he should apply these methods to Mrs. Zimmerman. Not an easy man, he reflected, and certainly not, to all appearances, a ladies’ man. It was difficult to know what pleasure Mrs. Mitchell could derive from her visits.

  The lodge looked peaceful and unchanged. Paul knocked on the door, waited and knocked again, but though he could hear sounds within the house, nobody came to answer his summons. He wondered whether the General had omitted to tell him that Mrs. Zimmerman was stone deaf.

  Then he heard footsteps, heavy and unhurried, and the door opened. Before him stood a tall, thin, elderly woman so like the General that for a moment he had an impression of the general in a grotesque white wig.

  “Mrs. Zimmerman?” he inquired.

  She nodded. She was wearing a dress that buttoned all the way down the front, but she had begun by leaving out two buttons at the top, so that at the hem, two buttonholes yawned tenantless. One of her shoes was brown, the other black; one hand held a duster and the other a screwdriver. Paul wondered whether she suffered from some form of schizophrenia. But in spite of the oddities of her attire, there was something dignified, even commanding in her manner.

  “State your business, young man,” she ordered.

  “The General,” began Paul, “has asked me to call and—”

  He stopped. The door had banged, and Mrs. Zimmerman was speaking from the other side of it.

  “You can go away,” she called. “You needn’t pretend; I know quite well what you’ve come about. Go away.”

  “I am an estate agent. The General—”

  “The General’s acting like a fool, and you can tell him so from me,” broke in Mrs. Zimmerman in a high, loud voice. “I know very well why he wants me to go, and I daresay you do too, though you’re pretending you don’t. You can tell him from me that he ought to be ashamed of himself—at his age! You’ve no business to be encouraging him.”

  Her voice became fainter as she walked firmly away. He heard a door bang, and after that there was silence.

  He was not disposed to linger. He had come on a fool’s errand and he had wasted his time. If the general wanted to solve his family difficulties, he must go about it in some other way.

  Chapter 2

  He went back as he had come, skirting Sanctuary, and dropped to the level of the town. When he reached the office, he gave Frances a brief account of his visit.

  “I suppose the old girl’s off her head,” she suggested when he had ended.

  “I wouldn’t say so. Her head’s strong enough; it’s her position that’s weak. I think the general must have been supplying her with food and fuel, and if he cares to stop, she’ll be in a hole.”

  “Why will she? She could come and do her shopping in town.”

  “I’m pretty certain she hasn’t a car, and I wouldn’t care to see her driving it if she had. She couldn’t walk down; it would take her nearly half an hour, and more, on the way up. Well, they’ll sort it out between them, I suppose.”

  “I’ll go up and see her tomorrow,” said Frances. “This obviously n
eeds a woman’s touch. If I can’t evict the poor old girl, I can at least dress her properly. I’ll leave Bob in charge of the office.”

  “Bob?”

  “Yes. He rang up just now to say he’s taking the four day’s leave that’s due to him.”

  “Good.” There was genuine pleasure in Paul’s voice. He was on the point of suggesting a dinner date with Philippa and himself, but remembered that Bob, like Frances, had never shared his liking for the Mitchells. “Anything else turn up while I was out?”

  “Yes. Dr. Veysey did. He said he’d come back—and here he is,” she ended, as the door opened.

  Dr. Veysey came in—fiftyish, slim, and handsome; a man who, as long as Paul and Frances could remember, had split the town into two bitterly opposed factions; those who admired his professional brilliance and those who detested his philandering propensities. He leaned across Frances’ desk to pat her cheek.

  “How’s my old favorite?” he inquired.

  “She’s not so old, and she’s busy,” said Frances. “Go and tell Paul whatever it is you’ve come to say.”

  The doctor smiled his carefree smile and settled himself on a corner of the desk.

  “Nothing important,” he said. “I just came in to tell you about those new tenants of mine. They’re coming in tomorrow.”

  “I shan’t be here,” said Paul. “I’m going up to London for the day.”

  “I’ll see them in for you,” said Frances, “if and provided they arrive during office hours.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be here before six,” the doctor told her.

  “Then count me out; I’m off duty at five,” said Frances. “You’ll have to go out there and stand on your own doorstep and hand over the keys. Who are they?”

  “Indians.”

  “West? Red?”

  “Indians from India. Name of Dutt. Old Allenby’s blood pressure rose when I told him. He said he liked Indians but didn’t want a colony of ’em next door, and would I consider calling off the deal. Would he, I said as sweet as sugar, consider minding his own blasted business.” He rose. “Well, I’ll see them in tomorrow, and perhaps you’ll take over after that. Three months’s tenancy, £80 a month.”

  “That’s a bit steep for this time of the year, isn’t it?” asked Paul in astonishment.

  “I thought he’d try to beat me down,” said the doctor, “but he didn’t. His loss, our gain.” He strolled to the door and raised a hand in salute. “Well, so long.”

  The door closed behind him, and Frances looked at Paul.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “He throws all his money away on women, and does and says exactly as he pleases and doesn’t give a hoot for a soul, but you can’t help liking him.”

  “Who can’t?” said Paul. “Speak for yourself. Every time he comes in here, I feel I’d like to take him by the back of the collar and throw him out. I think most men feel like that about him; perhaps we’re jealous of all his successes. If he weren’t a member of an honourable profession, I wouldn’t care how he spent his nights.”

  Paul left the valley before it was light. In spite of his having asked his mother to stay in bed, she rose to give him his breakfast, and the morning was so damp and cheerless that he was grateful to sit down to a warm meal before he left.

  It rained throughout the journey, and was still coming down spasmodically when he drove through the outskirts of London. At the airport, the great expanse of tarmac glistened like a dark lake, and now and then a gust of wind brought down an extra heavy shower and veiled the planes standing on the runways.

  He was late; the plane from Madrid had arrived, and the passengers had completed the customs formalities and were fanning out to car or coach. Paul, hurrying through the great hall, saw nobody who looked like a Spanish cousin in charge of a Spanish uncle, and wondered uneasily whether he had missed them.

  Then he saw some way off a stout foreign-looking man who was studying him intently. He came nearer, and then hurried towards Paul with outstretched hands.

  “You are Paul; of course?” His English was shaky but sufficient. “Yes, yes, yes; I knew I could not be mistaken; so tall, so beeg; Rosario’s mother told us much about you. Come—meet your little cousin.”

  He led Paul to a far corner of the hall; at first there seemed to be nobody there awaiting them, but from a deep chair rose a very small, very thin figure enveloped in deep black.

  “Ah! See, I have him! See, Rosario, I have your good cousin who has come to meet you.”

  Paul found himself looking a long way down to smooth dark hair that lay, wet from the rain, on a pair of thin shoulders. Between the curtains of hair was a small, thin face and a small, drooping mouth. A pair of eyes—dark, enormous—lifted for a moment to his and then fell, but not before he had seen that they were full of tears.

  “She is so shy, so shy,” her uncle was explaining volubly. “She is sad, too, because never before has she come away alone. But see,” he put a gentle finger under his niece’s chin, “see, querida, you have a fine, strong cousin who will take you to stay with your good aunt—your own mama’s sister. It will not,” he added, “be for long. Come tell Paul how happy you are to see him.”

  Paul took two cold little hands in his and held them in what he hoped was a comforting, cousinly way. Rosario made no sign, but more tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, and she drew her hands away from Paul’s and wiped them away.

  She was still weeping when the announcement of her uncle’s flight came through the loud speaker, and he joined the line of people moving out to the great waiting plane.

  When Paul spoke to her, she answered politely, her voice soft, her English almost perfect—but one by one the tears brimmed, rolled down and were wiped away. He led her to the restaurant and settled her at a table and tried to make her eat, but had little success.

  So engrossed was he in his attempts to cheer her, that he failed to hear the summons that came from the loudspeaker. It was Rosario who drew his attention to it.

  “Your name. They are saying it,” she said.

  Her eyes indicated the loud speaker, and he listened to the repeated message; Sir Paul Saracen; would he go…

  Leaving Rosario at the table, Paul returned a little later with a slip of paper on which the message had been written: Mrs. Mitchell had telephoned to say that her brother, Mr. Allenby, was travelling down to Fern Valley on the Exeter train, but there had been severe flooding, and the branch line from Marloe Junction to Fern Valley was in places under water; the valley passengers would have to make their own way by road. Would Paul stop at the junction and pick up Mr. Allenby? Mr. Allenby would wait for him in the junction refreshment room.

  Rosario’s tears were still trickling when Paul drove into Marloe; somewhere on the journey he had given up the attempt to console her; time, he hoped, would heal all. He drove into the station yard and led her towards the refreshment room, usually a gloomy and deserted place, but this evening thronged with passengers waiting for vehicles that would take them to Fern Valley. From a bench in a corner, Mr. Allenby rose and signalled, and Paul led Rosario over to join him.

  “Come along, come and sit down.” Mr. Allenby, more than usually fussy, was moving his damp mackintosh from the place next to his and dragging up a chair for Rosario. “So this is your cousin? How do you do? How kind of you both to pick me up like this; I shouldn’t have known how to get home.” He directed a look of venom towards a party of Indians seated near by. “Those people have commandeered the only three hire cars in the place.”

  Paul glanced at the party. There was a slender, handsome man of about 50, extremely well-dressed and well-groomed; a girl of about seventeen in a pale pink sari; an older woman, also in a sari, and standing close by, two Indian servants.

  “That’s only the first installment,” Mr. Allenby informed him. “Hordes of ’em; hordes, my dear feller.”

  “Dr. Veysey’s tenants?”

  “Yes. I looked at their luggage labels. Eleven of ’em; I co
unted. There wasn’t a compartment in the Fern Valley part of the train that didn’t have two or three of them in it. I warned the doctor when he told me he’d let to Indians. No objection to Indians; no objection at all, I told him—but I warn you, they’ll come in their legions. And a child, too young devil, with two attendants, neither of ’em with any control over him. He—what did you say?”

  “I was asking whether you would like some coffee,” said Paul.

  “Coffee’s all there is,” said Mr. Allenby gloomily. “Damn place has run out of everything else—except tea, of course. Yes, I’ll have a cup, thanks, if you’re getting some.”’

  Paul walked toward the bar, to find Rosario slipping out of her chair and walking by his side. He smiled down at her; her preference for his company over Mr. Allenby’s was not much of a compliment but it gave him an unexpected glow of family feeling. He helped her on to a bar stool and signalled a waitress, and at that moment, Rosario’s handbag fell to the floor. Turning to retrieve it, Paul found her, pink with embarrassment, taking it from a girl who had picked it up. Her confusion made her apologize in the language that came most naturally to her— and as naturally, the girl answered in Spanish.

  “De nada.”

  Rosario stared at her in amazement. Then, her face a picture of delight, she began to speak rapidly in Spanish, and the other girl replied; her leisurely, casual manner a perfect contrast to Rosario’s vivid, eager one.

  Paul gave his order to the waitress and made a brief inspection of the newcomer. About twenty six, he thought: fair, middle height; gray or greeny-gray eyes; rather attractive. Duffle coat, no hat. Nothing remarkable about her except that exceptionally relaxed manner; he had noticed it in American and Canadian girls: a lazy ease, a kind of unaffected informality; an ability to pick up strangers without loss of dignity and drop them again without offence.