Poet's Pub

by Eric Linklater

  Half the party rushed to the window and half to the door. Those who went to the door got out in time to see Lady Mercy, Professor Benbow, Mr. van Buren and several others standing at the main entrance of “The Pelican” in the attitude of a Greek chorus when the messenger has just announced a fresh crisis; and disappearing up Downish High Street, with a feather of blue smoke behind it, the swollen cerulean stern of the “Blue Bird.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Mr. Wesson arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. The booking-office had not opened, but Mr. Wesson properly assumed that the booking-clerk knew his own business. Before the 1.55 came snorting and roaring into Downish he would bang up his little window in time to sell tickets to Glasgow (change at Dullage, Stafford and Crewe) or any other town that travellers might consider worth visiting.

  Mr. Wesson walked on to the platform. It wasn’t worth while putting his attaché case in the left-luggage room—the left-luggage room appeared to be closed anyhow—as the intrusion of Nelly Bly into his affairs had taken up so much time that he now had barely twenty minutes or so to wait. There was no one else on the platform and Mr. Wesson strolled up and down feeling more at ease than he had done for some days. The van Buren papers were safely hidden between his pyjamas and his shirts, he had a useful selection of passports, no one at “The Pelican” would notice his disappearance till the following day, and then no one would know where he had gone… that, he remembered, was not quite accurate. He had told the red-haired chambermaid that he was going to America. A foolish thing to do, but he had felt some compunction at having to tie her up, and the admission that he was going so far away as America had been in the nature of an explanation. Mr. Wesson belonged to a courteous nation, a nation reverent of its womanhood, and he realized that any man owes an explanation to a girl whom he ties to a bedroom chair under the threat of splashing her with vitriol. Perhaps on this occasion he should have suppressed his better feelings, though. But it did not matter. In less than twenty minutes he would be on the train, and by Monday morning he would have disappeared entirely; while in the unremarkable grey suit which Mr. Wesson was wearing, Mr. Edward P. Huttar of Indianapolis would be booking an Atlantic passage in Glasgow.

  His spirits rose, and as he walked light-heartedly to the south end of the platform Mr. Wesson whistled a little tune. They were pleasant places, these English country stations, with their clean white platforms, and beyond the platforms flower-beds which the station-master assiduously tended in his spare time. Even the advertisements were in harmony with the semi-rural scene; they humanized it, these bright injunctions to buy Oxo and Bovril and Swan Vestas. And the rails, steely straight ribbons shining so fiercely, were indescribably attractive.

  Mr. Wesson walked northwards again. He was still the only prospective passenger on his own side of the station, but on the opposite platform a man sat reading. A comfortable-looking man who had discarded his coat and sat very contentedly in his shirt-sleeves, smoking his pipe and reading his Sunday newspaper. It was curious, thought Mr. Wesson, that no one else was travelling, though he knew very well that the better kind of English people rarely leave their homes on a Sunday.

  It occurred to him that he could pleasantly spend a few minutes in talking to the comfortable-looking man opposite, and with a ready introduction on his tongue he crossed the footbridge.

  “A fine day,” said Mr. Wesson.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” agreed the man, looking up from his paper.

  “It’s from that platform, isn’t it”—Mr. Wesson pointed across the lines—“that the 1.55 goes to Dullage? I’m travelling farther,” he explained, “but I have to change at Dullage.”

  “Maybe,” said the man, “I’ve never been further than Bromley myself.”

  “Is Bromley on the way to Dullage?” asked Mr. Wesson.

  “It is,” said the man, “if you go that way.”

  “And when you went to Bromley, did you leave from that platform?”

  “Ar!” said the man, “you’ve taken me up wrongly. I was living in Thorple then.”

  “I see,” said Mr. Wesson—which was not strictly true—and walked up and down for a few minutes while the man continued to read his paper. Then he crossed the footbridge to see if the booking-clerk had arrived, and was slightly perturbed to find that there was no sign of life in the book-office, or the station-master’s office, or the waiting-room, or even the left-luggage room.

  Mr. Wesson re-crossed the footbridge and said to the man, who was filling his pipe, “I suppose you aren’t the station-master, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” said the man. “I’m a rat-catcher. Rats and weasels and stoats and moles. Vermin of all kind. Sometimes a cat, if I know someone that wants one. But chiefly rats. Though I’m pretty good with weasels.”

  “Do you know when the booking-office opens?” interrupted Mr. Wesson.

  “’Bout nine o’clock if there happens to be an early train,” said the rat-catcher.

  “Nine o’clock! But it’s nearly two, and there’s no one in the station except ourselves.”

  “Ar!” said the rat-catcher, “this is Sunday, you see.”

  “But what difference does, that make?”

  “Just you wait here for an hour or two and you’ll see for yourself.”

  “Do you mean to say that there aren’t any trains on Sunday?”

  “Some of them goes through here,” said the rat-catcher, “but I’ve never seen one stop.”

  “Good God in Heaven!” exclaimed Mr. Wesson.

  “So they say,” agreed the rat-catcher.

  Mr. Wesson was stunned. The metaphor is violent (though not uncommon), but only a violent figure can illustrate the shock to which he had been subjected. He sat down and tried to compose the agitation which succeeded his first feeling of stupor.

  “An automobile!” he exclaimed.

  The rat-catcher looked at him curiously.

  “A motor-car,” Mr. Wesson explained. “Can I hire a motor-car?”

  The rat-catcher shook his head. “Not on a Sunday. There is a garage in Downish, but it’s closed on Sunday, and all the drivers, or both of them, I should say, ’ll be at home sleeping, or digging in their gardens, or listening to their missuses, or reading the paper, same as I am. I like the station on a Sunday morning—it’s a nice quiet place to have a bit of a read—but those motor-car drivers generally stays at home.”

  Mr. Wesson got up distractedly and crossed the bridge for the fourth time. He felt very like one of the weasels which his new friend was pretty good at catching, and as a cornered weasel will, it is asserted, leap for the throat of the hunter, so Mr. Wesson was prepared to add crime to crime in his reasonable determination—for he could not return to “The Pelican”—to get out of Downish. If he could not hire a car he was ready to steal one.

  There might be a car or two in “The Pelican” garage, though to reach that he would have to pass “The Pelican” itself. And then the garage might be locked or empty, for few of the visitors had brought motor-cars with them. Mr. Wesson gloomily remembered that in England a car is not considered a necessary domestic utensil, as it is in America. In America one could pick up an automobile at any street corner. But rural England is still a vacant parking-ground.

  Quentin Cotton had a Bentley, he recalled, and Holly the barman had an aged Morris-Cowley. Sir Philip Betts, the racing motorist, had been riding a bicycle to keep his weight down.… The sun shone out of a clear sky and Mr. Wesson felt perspiration clammily oozing under his hat. He was nearing “The Pelican.” A huge blue charabanc stood in front of it. He couldn’t very well steal a charabanc. It was too conspicuous for his purpose. But there was no other car in sight. Not a vehicle of any sort standing trustfully under tree or lamp-post, and Mr. Wesson knew nothing about Lady Mercy’s Isotta-Fraschini which stood in the little cul-de-sac called Pelican Lane.

  He braced himself to walk past the inn as though he had no interest in it, or as though he were as innocent as L
ady Porlet whom he saw approaching it from the opposite direction. She would probably stop and speak to him, he thought viciously. The old busybody! And then, coming towards him, rapidly overtaking Lady Porlet, smoothly running, shining in the sun, he saw a two-seater car such as any fugitive would give his kingdom for. It was Quentin Cotton’s Bentley driven by Joan Benbow, who had been far enough to feed her thoughts on loneliness.

  The charabanc filled half the street in front of “The Pelican” and Joan stopped a little short of it. Mr. Wesson crossed to the opposite pavement. Joan turned in her seat and called to Lady Porlet, who was no more than a couple of yards away, “Are you going in, Lady Porlet?”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Lady Porlet. “I’ve just had lunch at the Vicarage. Such a charming man. And his wife a most sensible woman. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Tell George or someone to bring out the key of the garage, will you, so that I can put Mr. Cotton’s car in?”

  “Certainly,” said Lady Porlet. “How very nice for you to be able to drive all by yourself.”

  She smiled graciously and walked on towards “The Pelican.”

  Mr. Wesson had meanwhile made up his mind. Here was the car he wanted—a Bentley has the reputation of easily acquiring a speed which pedestrians consider excessive—and though he had no desire for a companion, if he didn’t take both the car and its present driver it would be out of his reach in a few minutes.

  Joan looked round to find Mr. Wesson getting into the seat beside her.

  “Drive down to the Square,” he said before she could speak.

  “Why,” she exclaimed, “what do you mean? Is this a joke?”

  He put an attaché case which he carried on to the floor between his feet and repeated, “Drive down to the Square—quickly!”

  “Mr. Wesson!” said Joan, and stopped curiously as he took a small bottle out of his pocket.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Vitriol,” replied Mr. Wesson. He removed the cork, and as Joan shrank away, held the bottle a few inches under her nose. It had a pungent smell.

  “Now will you drive on?” he asked.

  “But why?” persisted Joan, tearful and already feeling for the clutch.

  “Because I tell you to,” said Mr. Wesson.

  A familiar voice interrupted them. Lady Porlet had come back to ask, “Was it George whom you wanted, my dear?”

  “Say ‘No, I don’t want him now,’” whispered Mr. Wesson, and tilted the little bottle towards Joan. His hand concealed it from Lady Porlet, to whom he presented an appearance of one unconcernedly dallying.

  “I don’t want him now,” repeated Joan in a high-pitched, breathless kind of voice.

  “And hurry up.”

  The car shot forward, swerving past the charabanc, leaving Lady Porlet with a look of mild surprise on her face, and in a few seconds reached the Square.

  “Now turn and go back,” said Mr. Wesson, “I want to go northwards.”

  Joan was sobbing tearlessly, almost frightened out of her wits, and driving very badly. Mr. Wesson said comfortingly, “I have no intention of hurting you if you do what I tell you to. Now be a good girl and drive a little, straighter.”

  “Then put that bottle away,” Joan gasped.

  “You promise to drive on?”

  “Yes!”

  Mr. Wesson put the bottle in his pocket and they repassed “The Pelican” at fair speed. Mr. Wesson, looking round as they passed, saw Lady Porlet just about to go in. Evidently her curiosity had kept her meditating on the pavement for a space of some seconds.

  They left Downish behind them, The road, between the poplars which go all the way to Little Needham, was quieter than the street, for the trees returned no echo of their passing.

  “I can’t drive any longer,” said Joan suddenly. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Then stop the car,” said Mr. Wesson, “and I’ll take your place.”

  “Are you going to let me out?”

  “I can’t” said Mr. Wesson regretfully, “not yet at any rate. Because I don’t want anyone to know where I am or what I’m doing at present. I’m in a very difficult position. For the second time in an hour I have been forced to treat a lady in a way which I shall always deplore, and I’m real sorry. But courtesy must bow to circumstance. I’m going to Scotland. Do I turn left or right here?”

  “Right,” said Joan.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Wesson.

  Joan began to recover her composure. She had felt as once when swimming too far out at sea the tide pulled at her legs and the beach would come no closer; a flutter of panic weakened her, a wave leapt in her face as if to choke her, and for a moment or two her arms beat wildly; and then she set her teeth and swam strongly and never looked up to see how far away the beach was; and presently she found herself in shallow water. Now that Mr. Wesson was driving the terrible little bottle which smelt so pungently was in the pocket farther away from her.

  They passed a scout of the Automobile Association.

  “You should have returned that A.A. man’s salute,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t have them in the States, but I’ll remember the next time.”

  “Why are you going to Scotland? And why are you taking me? And what are you going to do when you get there?”

  “You needn’t be afraid of anything so long as you sit quiet,” said Mr. Wesson comfortingly. “I shan’t hurt you or do anything to upset you; at least as little as possible.”

  “But why have you kidnapped me like this? It’s no use holding me to ransom, because father hasn’t got a great deal of money.”

  “You misjudge me,” said Mr. Wesson. “I am not a kidnapper.”

  “Then what are you? I thought you collected old books.”

  Mr. Wesson shuddered. “I hate them,” he said with some feeling.

  Fields slid past them in a green blur that travelled at fifty-five miles an hour. Trees grew tall in front of them, loomed tremendously, passed them, and dwindled in their wake. A dog barked. A hen fluttered madly over the road, squawking hysterically. Two or three little houses went by in a red-brick haze. Green hedges lined the road. A farmyard smell swept over them. Five cows looked up, still chewing the cud, and a calf took fright in its friendly field.

  Mr. Wesson began to explain.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Hot and dishevelled from her struggle, Nelly Bly twisted her foot out of the last of Mr. Wesson’s neckties and stood up free. The door was still locked but she carried a master-key, as other maids did, and the final barrier swung urbanely back. On the point of leaving the bedroom she turned and picked up the black portfolio which held “Tellus Will Proceed.” Mr. Wesson had contemptuously tossed it into a corner. But since it had shared her misfortune Nelly felt attached to it. She ran hastily downstairs.

  She knew more about the English railway system than Mr. Wesson did, and she was almost sure that on Sunday the Downish train-service was non-existent. But he had spoken so calmly, with such an assumption of fact, about the 1:55 that she was going to the station to make certain. She was still determined on an individual scoop, and the scoop now depended wholly on the capture of Mr. Wesson. Naturally enough she was very excited, and when she ran through the door of “The Pelican” into the arms of Lady Porlet she was impatient at the delay.

  “Dear me,” said Lady Porlet, staggering a little.

  “I’m sorry,” said Nelly, and tried to get past her, first on one side and then on the other.

  “You ought indeed to be sorry—”

  “But, I’m in a hurry—”

  “Like a jack-in-the-box, both you and—”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Mr. Wesson appearing from nowhere—”

  “Wesson? When did you see him?”

  “He suddenly appeared beside Miss Benbow in Mr. Cotton’s car, which she was driving—”

  “What the devil was he doing with her? And when?”

  “He seemed to be ta
king her for a ride,” said Lady Porlet. “About a minute ago.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  “First of all they went down that way and then they came back. Perhaps I should say that she appeared to be taking him for a ride. She asked me to go and find George—”

  “You spoke to them?”

  “When I was coming back from the Vicarage. But I wish you wouldn’t swear. A girl in your position can’t be too careful, and it was unnecessary to say, ‘What the devil,’ because even if he exists, which many people doubt nowadays, though I think they have less reason for doubting his existence than their parents had, it is an unseemly expression—”

  “Listen,” said Nelly firmly. She had reflected for a few seconds—she seldom reflected longer—and decided what to do. She put her arm through Lady Porlet’s and walked her out of “The Pelican” and up the pavement towards Pelican Lane, where she had abruptly, brilliantly remembered Lady Mercy’s car was standing. “Listen,” she said, and Lady Porlet was not a little ruffled at being spoken to in such a tone by a maid. “Go and tell Mr. Keith that Wesson has stolen van Buren’s portfolio. A portfolio like this.”—She waved Saturday’s poem before Lady Porlet’s startled eyes.—“Tell him that Wesson and Joan Benbow are together in Quentin Cotton’s car, heading north, probably for Scotland, and that I am following them in Lady Mercy’s. Do you understand?”

  “No,” said Lady Porlet, “I’m afraid I don’t. You say Mr. Wesson has stolen something?”

  “O my God,” said Nelly. They had come to the little crooked lane and the dark-red opulent limousine was before them. “Tell Mr. Keith that Wesson has stolen the portfolio. Tell him that he is escaping in Quentin Cotton’s car. Tell him that I think Wesson is making for Glasgow. Joan Benbow is with him—”

  “I know that,” said Lady Porlet with some dignity. “It was I who told you that, as a matter of fact!”

  “Then tell Keith!”

  Nelly could wait no longer. She got into the Isotta-Fraschini, backed it out of the cul-de-sac, shouted “There’s not a second to lose!” as stern-first she passed Lady Porlet, and shot up the High Street in pursuit of the long-vanished Bentley.