Taken at the Flood Page 7

  This afternoon in the broad peasant stripes of gay colour, he seemed to see a new Rosaleen Cloade. Her Irish origin was more noticeable, the dark curling hair and the lovely blue eyes put in with the smutty finger. Her voice, too, had a softer Irish sound instead of the careful rather mincing tones in which she usually spoke.

  “It’s such a lovely afternoon,” she said. “So I came for a walk.”

  She added:

  “David’s gone to London.”

  She said it almost guiltily, then flushed and took a cigarette case out of her bag. She offered one to Rowley, who shook his head, then looked round for a match to light Rosaleen’s cigarette. But she was flicking unsuccessfully at an expensive-looking small gold lighter. Rowley took it from her and with one sharp movement it lit. As she bent her head towards him to light her cigarette he noticed how long and dark the lashes were that lay on her cheek and he thought to himself:

  “Old Gordon knew what he was doing….”

  Rosaleen stepped back a pace and said admiringly:

  “That’s a lovely little heifer you’ve got in the top field.”

  Astonished by her interest, Rowley began to talk to her about the farm. Her interest surprised him, but it was obviously genuine and not put on, and to his surprise he found that she was quite knowledgeable on farm matters. Butter-making and dairy produce she spoke of with familiarity.

  “Why, you might be a farmer’s wife, Rosaleen,” he said smiling.

  The animation went out of her face.

  She said:

  “We had a farm—in Ireland—before I came over here—before—”

  “Before you went on the stage?”

  She said wistfully and a trifle, it seemed to him, guiltily:

  “It’s not so very long ago…I remember it all very well.” She added with a flash of spirit, “I could milk your cows for you, Rowley, now.”

  This was quite a new Rosaleen. Would David Hunter have approved these casual references to a farming past? Rowley thought not. Old Irish landed gentry, that was the impression David tried to put over. Rosaleen’s version, he thought, was nearer the truth. Primitive farm life, then the lure of the stage, the touring company to South Africa, marriage—isolation in Central Africa—escape—hiatus—and finally marriage to a millionaire in New York….

  Yes, Rosaleen Hunter had travelled a long way since milking a Kerry cow. Yet looking at her, he found it hard to believe that she had ever started. Her face had that innocent, slightly half-witted expression, the face of one who has no history. And she looked so young—much younger than her twenty-six years.

  There was something appealing about her, she had the same pathetic quality as the little calves he had driven to the butcher that morning. He looked at her as he had looked at them. Poor little devils, he had thought, a pity that they had to be killed….

  A look of alarm came into Rosaleen’s eyes. She asked uneasily: “What are you thinking of, Rowley?”

  “Would you like to see over the farm and the dairy?”

  “Oh, indeed, I would.”

  Amused by her interest he took her all over the farm. But when he finally suggested making her a cup of tea, an alarmed expression came into her eyes.

  “Oh, no—thank you, Rowley—I’d best be getting home.” She looked down at her watch. “Oh! how late it is! David will be back by the 5:20 train. He’ll wonder where I am. I—I must hurry.” She added shyly: “I have enjoyed myself, Rowley.”

  And that, he thought, was true. She had enjoyed herself. She had been able to be natural—to be her own raw unsophisticated self. She was afraid of her brother David, that was clear. David was the brains of the family. Well, for once, she’d had an afternoon out—yes, that was it, an afternoon out just like a servant! The rich Mrs. Gordon Cloade!

  He smiled grimly as he stood by the gate watching her hurrying up the hill towards Furrowbank. Just before she reached the stile a man came over it—Rowley wondered if it was David but it was a bigger, heavier man. Rosaleen drew back to let him pass, then skipped lightly over the stile, her pace accentuating almost to a run.

  Yes, she’d had an afternoon off—and he, Rowley, had wasted over an hour of valuable time! Well, perhaps it hadn’t been wasted. Rosaleen, he thought, had seemed to like him. That might come in useful. A pretty thing—yes, and the calves this morning had been pretty…poor little devils.

  Standing there, lost in thought, he was startled by a voice, and raised his head sharply.

  A big man in a broad felt hat with a pack slung across his shoulders was standing on the footpath at the other side of the gate.

  “Is this the way to Warmsley Vale?”

  As Rowley stared he repeated his question. With an effort Rowley recalled his thoughts and answered:

  “Yes, keep right along the path—across that next field. Turn to the left when you get to the road and about three minutes takes you right into the village.”

  In the self-same words he had answered that particular question several hundred times. People took the footpath on leaving the station, followed it up over the hill, and lost faith in it as they came down the other side and saw no sign of their destination, for Blackwell Copse masked Warmsley Vale from sight. It was tucked away in a hollow there with only the tip of its church tower showing.

  The next question was not quite so usual, but Rowley answered it without much thought.

  “The Stag or the Bells and Motley. The Stag for choice. They’re both equally good—or bad. I should think you’d get a room all right.”

  The question made him look more attentively at his interlocutor. Nowadays people usually booked a room beforehand at any place they were going to….

  The man was tall, with a bronzed face, a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about forty and not ill-looking in a tough and rather daredevil style. It was not, perhaps, a wholly pleasant face.

  Come from overseas somewhere, thought Rowley. Was there or was there not a faint Colonial twang in his accent? Curious, in some way, the face was not unfamiliar….

  Where had he seen that face, or a face very like it, before?

  Whilst he was puzzling unsuccessfully over that problem, the stranger startled him by asking:

  “Can you tell me if there’s a house called Furrowbank near here?”

  Rowley answered slowly:

  “Why, yes. Up there on the hill. You must have passed close by it—that is, if you’ve come along the footpath from the station.”

  “Yes—that’s what I did.” He turned, staring up the hill. “So that was it—that big white new-looking house.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “A big place to run,” said the man. “Must cost a lot to keep up?”

  A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And our money…A stirring of anger made him forget for the moment where he was….

  With a start he came back to himself to see the stranger staring up the hill with a curious speculative look in his eyes.

  “Who lives there?” he said. “Is it—a Mrs. Cloade?”

  “That’s right,” said Rowley. “Mrs. Gordon Cloade.”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows. He seemed gently amused.

  “Oh,” he said, “Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Very nice for her!”

  Then he gave a short nod.

  “Thanks, pal,” he said, and shifting the pack he carried he strode on towards Warmsley Vale.

  Rowley turned slowly back into the farmyard. His mind was still puzzling over something.

  Where the devil had he seen that fellow before?

  III

  About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house.

  Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr. Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a man. Over a pint of bi
tter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present, unfavourable comment was made upon the Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops.

  Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice:

  “Got a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Rowley. Came along about six o’clock. That the one you mean?”

  Rowley nodded.

  “He passed my place. Asked his way.”

  “That’s right. Seems a stranger.”

  “I wondered,” said Rowley, “who he was.”

  He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back.

  “That’s easy, Mr. Rowley, if you’d like to know.”

  She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the arrivals.

  She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows:

  Enoch Arden. Cape Town. British.

  Nine

  I

  It was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her expensive peasant dress, felt happy.

  The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post arrived.

  There were seven or eight letters for Rosaleen. Bills, charitable appeals, some local invitations—nothing of any special interest.

  David laid aside a couple of small bills and opened the third envelope. The enclosure, like the outside of the envelope, was written in printed characters.

  Dear Mr. Hunter,

  I think it is best to approach you rather than your sister, Mrs. Cloade,” in case the contents of this letter might come as somewhat of a shock to her. Briefly, I have news of Captain Robert Underhay, which she may be glad to hear. I am staying at the Stag and if you will call there this evening, I shall be pleased to go into the matter with you.

  Yours faithfully,

  Enoch Arden

  A strangled sound came from David’s throat. Rosaleen looked up smiling, then her face changed to an expression of alarm.

  “David—David—what is it?”

  Mutely he held out the letter to her. She took it and read it.

  “But—David—I don’t understand—what does it mean?”

  “You can read, can’t you?”

  She glanced up at him timorously.

  “David—does it mean—what are we going to do?”

  He was frowning—planning rapidly in his quick far-seeing mind.

  “It’s all right, Rosaleen, no need to be worried. I’ll deal with it—”

  “But does it mean that—”

  “Don’t worry, my dear girl. Leave it to me. Listen, this is what you’ve got to do. Pack a bag at once and go up to London. Go to the flat—and stay there until you hear from me? Understand?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I understand, but David—”

  “Just do as I say, Rosaleen.” He smiled at her. He was kindly, reassuring. “Go and pack. I’ll drive you to the station. You can catch the 10:32. Tell the porter at the flats that you don’t want to see any one. If any one calls and asks for you, he’s to say you’re out of town. Give him a quid. Understand? He’s not to let any one up to see you except me.”

  “Oh.” Her hands went up to her cheeks. She looked at him with scared lovely eyes.

  “It’s all right, Rosaleen—but it’s tricky. You’re not much hand at the tricky stuff. That’s my lookout. I want you out of the way so that I’ve got a free hand, that’s all.”

  “Can’t I stay here, David?”

  “No, of course you can’t, Rosaleen. Do have some sense. I’ve got to have a free hand to deal with this fellow whoever he is—”

  “Do you think that it’s—that it’s—”

  He said with emphasis:

  “I don’t think anything at the moment. The first thing is to get you out of the way. Then I can find out where we stand. Go on—there’s a good girl, don’t argue.”

  She turned and went out of the room.

  David frowned down at the letter in his hand.

  Very noncommittal—polite—well phrased—might mean anything. It might be genuine solicitude in an awkward situation. Might be a veiled threat. He conned its phrases over and over—“I have news of Captain Robert Underhay”…“Best to approach you”…“I shall be pleased to go into the matter with you…” “Mrs. Cloade.” Damn it all, he didn’t like those inverted commas—Mrs. Cloade…”

  He looked at the signature. Enoch Arden. Something stirred in his mind—some poetical memory…a line of verse.

  II

  When David strode into the hall of the Stag that evening, there was, as was usual, no one about. A door at the left was marked Coffee Room, a door on the right was marked Lounge. A door farther along was marked repressively “For Resident Guests Only.” A passage on the right led along to the bar, from whence a faint hum of voices could be heard. A small glass-encased box was labelled Office and had a pushbell placed conveniently on the side of its sliding window.

  Sometimes, as David knew by experience, you had to ring four or five times before any one condescended to come and attend to you. Except for the short period of meal times, the hall of the Stag was as deserted as Robinson Crusoe’s island.

  This time, David’s third ring of the bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippincott along the passage from the bar, her hand patting her golden pompadour of hair into place. She slipped into the glass box and greeted him with a gracious smile.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hunter. Rather cold weather for the time of year, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—I suppose it is. Have you got a Mr. Arden staying here?”

  “Let me see now,” said Miss Lippincott, making rather a parade of not knowing exactly, a proceeding she always adopted as tending to increase the importance of the Stag. “Oh, yes. Mr. Enoch Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You can’t miss it, Mr. Hunter. Up the stairs, and don’t go along the gallery but round to the left and down three steps.”

  Following these complicated directions, David tapped on the door of No. 5 and a voice said Come in.

  He went in, closing the door behind him.

  III

  Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott called, “Lily.” An adenoidal girl with a giggle and pale boiled-gooseberry eyes responded to the summons.

  “Can you manage for a bit, Lily? I’ve got to see about some linen.”

  Lily said, “Oh, yes, Miss Lippincott,” gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily: “I do think Mr. Hunter’s ever so good-looking, don’t you?”

  “Ah, I’ve seen a lot of his type in the war,” said Miss Lippincott, with a world-weary air. “Young pilots and suchlike from the fighter station. Never could be sure about their cheques. Often had such a way with them that you’d cash the things against your better judgment. But, of course, I’m funny that way, Lily, what I like is class. Give me class every time. What I say is a gentleman’s a gentleman even if he does drive a tractor.” With which enigmatic pronouncement Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.

  IV

  Inside room No. 5, David Hunter paused inside the door and looked at the man who had signed himself Enoch Arden.

  Fortyish, knocked about a bit, a suggestion of having come down in the world—on the whole a difficult customer. Such was David’s summing up. Apart from that, not easy to fathom. A dark horse.

  Arden said:

  “Hallo—you Hunter? Good. Sit down. What’ll you have? Whisky?”

  He’d made himself comfortable, David noted that. A modest array of bottles—a fire burning in the grate on this chilly spring evening. Clothes not English cut, but worn as an Englishman wears clothes. The man was the right age, too….

  “Thanks,” David said, “I’ll have a spot of whisky.”
r />   “Say When.”

  “When. Not too much soda.”

  They were a little like dogs, manoeuvring for position—circling round each other, backs stiff, hackles up, ready to be friendly or ready to snarl and snap.

  “Cheerio,” said Arden.

  “Cheerio.”

  They set their glasses down, relaxed a little. Round One was over.

  The man who called himself Enoch Arden said:

  “You were surprised to get my letter?”

  “Frankly,” said David, “I don’t understand it at all.”

  “N-no—n-no—well, perhaps not.”

  David said:

  “I understand you knew my sister’s first husband—Robert Underhay.”

  “Yes, I knew Robert very well.” Arden was smiling, blowing clouds of smoke idly up in the air. “As well, perhaps, as any one could know him. You never met him, did you, Hunter?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, perhaps that’s as well.”

  “What do you mean by that?” David asked sharply.

  Arden said easily:

  “My dear fellow, it makes everything much simpler—that’s all. I apologize for asking you to come here, but I did think it was best to keep”—he paused—“Rosaleen out of it all. No need to give her unnecessary pain.”

  “Do you mind coming to the point?”

  “Of course, of course. Well now, did you ever suspect—how shall we say—that there was anything—well—fishy—about Underhay’s death?”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Well, Underhay had rather peculiar ideas, you know. It may have been chivalry—it may just possibly have been for quite a different reason—but let’s say that, at a particular moment some years ago, there were certain advantages to Underhay in being considered dead. He was good at managing natives—always had been. No trouble to him to get a probable story circulated with any amount of corroborative detail. All Underhay had to do was to turn up about a thousand miles away—with a new name.”

  “It seems a most fantastic supposition to me,” said David.

  “Does it? Does it really?” Arden smiled. He leaned forward, tapped David on the knee. “Suppose it’s true, Hunter? Eh? Suppose it’s true?”