“Yes—unofficially. They’ve no evidence against the place as yet—only suspicions. They were thinking of sending one of their own chaps to the Bella Vista as an ordinary holiday-maker, but when Sir John told them I was going anyway—”
Behind them, a familiar voice boomed. “It was clearly understood that we would travel first-class on the boat…”
“Let’s have a drink,” said Henry, hastily, and piloted Emmy down the companionway to the bar.
It was crowded, smoky and cheerful. Henry battled his way between young giants to the counter, and secured two Scotches and two hundred cigarettes for a laughable sum. By the time he had fought his way back to Emmy, she had already installed herself in the last remaining chair in the bar, and was chatting amicably to the fair girl, whose escorts were storming the bar in search of duty-free cognac.
“Oh, well done, Henry. Come and meet Miss Whittaker.” Emmy seemed for some reason to stress the surname as she said it. Heavens, thought Henry. Somebody I ought to know. The girl beamed at him.
“Miss Whittaker sounds too silly,” she said. “Please call me Caro.”
Henry said he would be delighted to, and gave Emmy her drink. A moment later the handsome, fair-haired young man emerged from the scrum at the bar, laden with glasses and bottles. Caro fluttered into a whirl of introductions. This was darling Roger—Roger Staines, actually—who was a frightfully good skier and was going to shame them all—but shame them—and this was Henry and Emmy Tibbett and they were going to the Bella Vista—actually to the same hotel—wasn’t that too extraordinary and blissful, Roger darling? Then darling Jimmy arrived with his ration of duty-free, and the party made merry, while the grey sea-miles slipped away under the keel, and the seagulls wheeled purposefully over the writhing white wake of the ship.
Calais was a scramble of porters, a perfunctory interlude with the Customs, a trek along seeming miles of platform—and eventually all five travellers were installed in Compartment E6 of a gleaming train, which had a showy plaque reading “Skisports Special” screwed to its smoking flanks. The hand-luggage was stowed away neatly above the door, and the first bottle of brandy opened (by Jimmy). The great train heaved a spluttering sigh, and pulled smoothly out of the station, heading south.
“And here we are,” said Jimmy, “until tomorrow. Have some brandy.”
France rolled away behind them in the already deepening dusk. Henry did his crossword; Emmy dozed; Jimmy took another swig of brandy; Caro read her magazine, and Roger stared moodily out of the window, a sulky look of bad temper ruining his impeccable profile. A small man in a leather jerkin, wearing a red armband embroidered with the words “Skisports Ltd.” in yellow, put his head into the carriage.
“I’m Edward, your courier on the train,” he announced brightly, blinking through thick-lensed spectacles. “Anything you want, just ask me.”
“Have some brandy,” said Jimmy. Edward tittered nervously, refused, and withdrew. They heard him open the door of the next compartment.
“I’m Edward, your courier on the train. If there’s anything—”
“There most certainly is, my man.” Mrs. Buckfast’s voice rose easily above the rhythmic pulse of the wheels. They could hear it rumbling on in discontent even when the unfortunate Edward had been lured into the carriage, and the door firmly shut behind him.
A few minutes later, Caro got up and went into the corridor, where she stood leaning on the window rail, looking out at the darkening fields, the lighted farmhouse windows, the tiny country stations, as they flashed past, tossed relentlessly from future to past by the insatiable, mile-hungry monster of which they were now a part.
Emmy glanced after Caro, suddenly awake, then settled herself to sleep again. Roger Staines got up from his corner seat, and went out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. He stood beside Caro, two backviews, inexpressive, lurching with the movement of the train. Henry could see that he was talking earnestly; that she was replying hardly at all. He could not hear what they were saying.
At five o’clock the lights of the train came on suddenly, and at six-thirty the bell sounded merrily down the corridor for First Dinner. Jimmy consulted his ticket and found that he was, indeed, due to dine at the first sitting: so, collecting Roger and Caro who were now leaning relaxedly against the carriage door, smoking and chatting idly, they went off with considerable clatter down the corridor towards the dining car.
It seemed very quiet and empty when they had gone. Henry got up and shut the door carefully. Then he said, “Roger Staines… I wish I could place him…”
“I’ve remembered where I’ve seen his picture—in the Tatler,” said Emmy. “He’s what they call a deb’s delight. Look—”
She picked up the magazine that was lying on the seat where Caro had left it. It was open at one of the familiar pages which report so tirelessly on the nightlife of London, and there was a photograph of Roger and Caro toasting each other in champagne. “Miss Caroline Whittaker, Sir Charles and Lady Whittaker’s lovely daughter, shares a drink and a jest at the Four Hundred with her favourite escort, Mr. Roger Staines,” said the caption, coyly. Henry looked at the picture for a full minute, thoughtfully. He said again, “I wish I could place him—further back. Quite a bit further back.”
“Goodness, I’m hungry,” said Emmy. “Have a biscuit.”
The train sped on towards the frontiers of Switzerland.
Henry and Emmy shared their table at Third Dinner with Colonel and Mrs. Buckfast. The latter, having obviously had the time of her life making mincemeat of poor Edward, was in a comparatively good humour, and agreed to take a glass of Sauternes with her fish; she even pronounced the food eatable. Her husband, evidently cheered by this unaccustomed serenity, became conversational over the coffee.
“Your first time on skis?” he asked Henry, his smooth red face aglow with affability.
“Yes, I’m a complete rabbit, I’m afraid,” Henry replied. “My wife’s done it before.”
“Only twice,” said Emmy. “I’m no good at all.”
“Finest sport in the world,” said the Colonel. He glanced round belligerently, as if expecting instant contradiction. Mrs. Buckfast sniffed, but said nothing. “My wife doesn’t ski,” he added, confidentially. “Jolly sporting of her to come out with me, year after year. I appreciate it. Of course, I’d absolutely understand if she wanted to stay behind and let me go alone…” His voice took on a wistful note.
“The mountain air is good for me,” said Mrs. Buckfast, flatly. “I find ways of passing the time. It really wouldn’t be fair to let poor Arthur do this trip all by himself.”
“I’ve often told you—” he began, but she cut him short with a “Pass the sugar please, Arthur,” that brooked no further discussion. There was a short silence, and then the Colonel tried again.
“Been to Santa Chiara before?” he asked.
“No.”
“Interested to know what attracted you, if you’re not a keen skier. Not everybody’s cup of tea—hotel stuck up all by itself at the top of a chair-lift. Can’t get down to the village at all after dark, you know.”
“They told us the skiing was excellent,” said Emmy, “and we wanted peace and quiet more than anything.”
“Then you certainly picked the right spot,” said Mrs. Buckfast, sourly. “I dare say,” she went on, with ill-concealed curiosity, “that your husband has been working very hard. Perhaps his job is a very exhausting one.”
“No more so than any other business man’s,” said Henry. “It’s just a question of temperament, I suppose. We always like quiet holidays, off the beaten track.”
“So you’re a business man are you? How very interesting. In the City?”
“Not exactly,” said Henry. “I work in Westminster.”
Mrs. Buckfast, foiled in her attempt to extract more information about Henry’s profession, went on, “Quite a distinguished party going to Santa Chiara this year. Caroline Whittaker, who had that huge ball at Claridge’s
last year, and the Honourable Jimmy Passendell—” her voice sank to a whisper—“Lord Raven’s son you know. A bit wild, I understand, but charming… so charming…”
“The other lad seems pleasant, too,” said Henry. “Roger Staines. I seem to know his face.”
“I know nothing about him,” said Mrs. Buckfast, with great firmness. “Nothing,” she added, “whatsoever.”
When Henry and Emmy got back to E6, the triple tiers of bunks had been set up, but the party showed no signs of going to bed. Jimmy had opened another bottle of brandy, and was leading the company in a variety of more or less bawdy songs. Henry and Emmy accepted a nightcap gratefully, and then suggested that they should retire to bed on the two top bunks, out of everyone’s way. “Don’t mind us old drears,” said Emmy. “Sing as loud as you like. We enjoy it.”
“Jolly decent of you,” said Jimmy. “Have another drink before you embark on the perilous ascent.” He said the last two words twice to make sure of getting them right. Caro was smiling now, sitting in the corner and holding hands with Roger.
In fact, the singing only went on for half an hour or so, before the whole party decided to get some rest. Caro took one of the two middle bunks, Roger and Jimmy the two lowest. Soon all was dark and quiet, except for the tiny blue bulb that burned in the ceiling, the soft breathing of the sleepers, and the thrumming wheels on the ribbon-stretch of rails. In his tiny compartment at the rear of the last coach, Edward cursed Mrs. Buckfast steadily, and with satisfaction, as he compiled his passenger list: between him and the engine driver, the sinuous length of train was all asleep.
At breakfast time next morning they were miraculously among mountains. True, the railway itself ran through wide, flat green valleys, like the beds of dried-up lakes, but all around the mountains reared proudly, fresh green giving way to grey rock, to evergreen, and finally, high above, to glistening white snow. All along the train, voices and spirits rose. The sun shone, and the snow, suddenly real, suddenly remembered, was a lure, a liberator, a potent magic. Soon, soon…
The Austrian border was left behind at half-past nine; by eleven the train was winding along the broad green valley of the River Inn, ringed by lofty mountains; at eleven-twenty precisely, the engine drew to a hissing, panting halt, and a guttural voice outside on the platform was shouting “Innsbruck! Innsbruck!” into the crisp, sunny air.
CHAPTER TWO
AT INNSBRUCK, the compact phalanx of skiers who had travelled en masse from Victoria dispersed abruptly: hotel buses or small, energetic mountain trains bore them off to their respective Austrian resorts. Only the Santa Chiara party remained, suddenly rather desolate, suddenly rather out of place in their aggressive sweaters. Edward, who had come in for some uncomplimentary remarks from E6 on the train, now seemed like their last—and faithless—friend, as he hurriedly compiled his reports, and headed for his overnight lodgings in Innsbruck.
Inevitably the camaraderie of isolation manifested itself. Jimmy fetched a cup of coffee for Mrs. Buckfast, the Colonel carried Emmy’s overnight case up the subway for her, Roger (with a superior command of German) collected the registered baggage, and Emmy and Caro ventured together in search of the Ladies’. Henry, feeling rather out of things, contented himself with buying enough English magazines at the bookstall to keep the whole party happy until teatime, when they were due at their destination.
Eventually all seven travellers, complete with luggage, were assembled on the correct platform to catch the Munich-Rome express, which was to carry them on the penultimate stage of their journey.
Evidently not many people wanted to exchange the exhilarating sunshine of Innsbruck for the uncertain joys of Rome in January, for nobody else was waiting for the train except an elderly couple who, Henry guessed, had been marketing in Innsbruck and were probably going no farther than Brenner, the frontier town. A few minutes before the train was due, however, a flurry of porters and expensive luggage appeared from the subway, followed by a tall and very thin man, dressed in a sort of Norfolk jacket made of bright green tweed, with a fur collar, and dark grey trousers of extreme narrowness. His face was long, and creased with deep lines of intolerance, and his lean, vulpine features were crowned incongruously by a green Tyrolean hat. With him was a girl of striking beauty: she had the face of a Florentine Madonna, with deep golden hair swept smoothly back from a broad brow and coiled on the nape of her neck. She wore pale grey ski trousers cut by a master, and a little grey jacket with a collar of snow leopard that framed her face like a cloud. Her makeup—in the Italian manner—emphasised her magnificent dark eyes, and her honey-coloured skin, while her full, lovely mouth was brushed lightly with a wild-rose pink. “Very, very expensive,” Emmy whispered to Henry, as the procession of porters swept past.
Mrs. Buckfast gazed after the newcomers with uninhibited curiosity: Caro looked sheepish, suddenly conscious of her crumpled, slept-in trousers: the men, involuntarily, turned to admire, and were rewarded by a scowl from under the Tyrolean hat.
When the train pulled in, dead on time, and they had secured an empty carriage for the party without difficulty, Henry and Emmy went to the window to take a last look at Innsbruck. To their surprise, Tyrolean Hat was on the platform alone, obviously saying good-bye to the Madonna, who stood, cool and beautiful, at the window of a first-class compartment. There were kisses, protestations of affection, fussings over baggage—all of which the girl received with what looked more like dutiful resignation than enthusiasm. At one point, when the man was engaged in some sort of altercation with the porter, Henry caught her looking at him with an expression of mingled contempt and dislike which was chilling in its intensity. At last the whistle blew, and the train started. The last view of Innsbruck was of a Tyrolean hat waving, somehow pathetically, on the end of a long, thin arm.
At Brenner, after a short and amicable interlude with the Italian Customs, the whole party filed down the corridor to the dining car. The young people secured a table for four, and the Buckfasts a table for two: Henry and Emmy, arriving last, were ushered by a smiling waiter to the last table in the car—a fourseater at present occupied by one person only, the Madonna from Innsbruck. She was ordering her meal in fluent Italian, completely relaxed, spontaneous and excited—a very different person from the cool beauty of Innsbruck station. “Like a little girl out of school,” Henry thought.
Throughout a delectable meal that started with fettuccini and meandered through fritto misto con fagiolini to a creamy bel paese cheese, there was more concentration on food than on conversation. With the coffee, however, a pleasantly replete and relaxed mood took over; the beauty made the first move by inquiring in excellent English whether Henry and Emmy were from London, and were they holidaying in Italy? They said they were.
“So am I,” she said, with a ravishing smile of pure happiness. “I am Italian, you see. But my husband is Austrian, and there we must live, in Innsbruck.”
“I envy you,” said Henry. “It must be a beautiful city.”
“Yes,” said the girl, shortly. Then, smiling again—“But where do you go? Rome? Venezia? Firenze?”
“As a matter of fact, we’re going to ski,” said Emmy.
“Oh! I too.”
“Perhaps we might even be headed for the same place,” Henry suggested.
“I am sure we are not,” said the beauty. “You go to Cortina, of course. All English and Americans go to Cortina.”
“No,” said Henry. “We’re going to a little place called Santa Chiara. The Albergo Bella Vista.”
To his surprise, the girl’s smile faded abruptly, and for an instant a look of sheer panic crossed her face.
“Santa Chiara,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I… I go there, too.”
“Well how nice,” said Emmy, quickly. “We must introduce ourselves. We are Henry and Emmy Tibbett.”
“And I…” There was an unmistakable hesitation. Then the girl seemed to shake herself, like a puppy coming out of the sea, and her smile flashed again. “I am
the Baroness von Wurtburg. But you must call me Maria-Pia. When I am in Italy, I forget that I have become an Austrian.”
There was a tiny pause.
“My children are already at the Bella Vista, with the fraulein,” the Baroness went on. “Hansi is eight, and Lotte six. You will meet them.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” said Emmy, suppressing her instinct to remark that the Baroness looked ridiculously young to have an eight-year-old son. “What a pity,” she added, daringly, “that your husband can’t be with you, too.”
Once again the panic flickered in the huge, brown eyes. “He is very busy, he cannot get away. He lets me—I mean, he likes me to return to my country each year, but he does not love Italy.”
“I bet he doesn’t,” thought Henry, remembering the harsh features under the Tyrolean hat. He felt very sorry for the Baroness and did not know how to convey his sympathy without seeming impertinent: so he quickly paid his bill and, with friendly assurances that they would meet again soon, ushered Emmy down the dining car. As they went, Henry felt, curiously, those magnificent eyes following him. At the door he turned, to meet the Baroness’s quiet, quizzical gaze. She looked him full in the eyes, and raised her head very slightly, as if in defiance. Henry, somewhat embarrassed, smiled and stepped into the swaying corridor.
At Chiusa, they made their last change. The great express rushed on southwards towards Verona, leaving the nine travellers standing in the sunshine on the little country station. All round them, the Dolomites broke the skyline with their warm, pink summits—flat rocks, pinnacled rocks, shapes whittled by wind and snow into primeval patterns of frightening strength and durability; the strength of the very old, the very tough, that has endured and will endure for time beyond thinking.
From the majesty of the mountains, a shrill tooting brought the party back to reality. There, on the opposite line, stood the most endearing train in the world. The engine—tiny, of 1870s vintage, with a tall, slender chimney and gleaming brasswork—headed just two coaches made of pale, fretted woodwork, with elaborate iron-railed observation platforms at each end. The Gothic windows of one carriage were chintz-curtained, marking them as First Class. The seats throughout were of slatted wood, with overhead racks for skis.
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