Lady With a Cool Eye

by Gwen Moffat

  “And your studies?”

  Linda was returning to normality. She said defiantly: “They’ve not been wasted. I’m writing a book — about the clearances in the Highlands, where the landowners drove the crofters out and burned their homes to stop them going back, because sheep brought higher profits than people!” There were tears of anger in her eyes. “And some of the lairds did nothing. Didn’t drive out the crofters but just sat back and watched them die of famine and disease and apathy. We want to go back and start a commune.”

  Miss Pink saw that that desire was logical for Linda but she was surprised that Jim should agree.

  “Oh, he’ll go,” Linda said airily, “he’s game for anything.” She winced.

  “Don’t persuade him yet. He’s a good instructor.”

  “Do you really think so?” She was pathetically eager. Miss Pink was finding these emotional oscillations somewhat exhausting.

  “If you can hold out a little longer I can promise you things will right themselves.”

  “In what way?” She had recovered sufficiently to take advantage of an opening.

  “Of course,” Miss Pink said firmly, “this other business must stop —”

  “Oh, it will!” She put on her spectacles and stared through them curiously. “You mean, you’ll stop it?”

  “If your own protests haven’t been effective.”

  “I told him I would go to Mr Roberts on Monday and start divorce proceedings.”

  “Mr Roberts is retired.”

  “He’d recommend someone.”

  “You don’t need to do that now.”

  “No, that’s what he said.”

  Miss Pink stood up and prepared to leave. She asked if Linda would care for a walk but the girl said she had lunch to prepare and, apparently eager to show that she was herself again, took a joint out of the oven which she must use as a meat safe, and lit the gas. Miss Pink left the cottage with a jaunty step but as soon as she was out of sight her pace slackened.

  She felt drained of energy and emotion but the void was slowly filling with anger and a grim awareness of the job which, she hoped unwittingly, John Beresford had wished on her.

  As she trudged slowly back to the village she was only faintly conscious of noise and bustle from the field where the Army was packing to leave. Too wet for them, she thought idly, and was glad the Centre wasn’t on the hill today.

  At two o’clock she was waiting in the Goat’s writing room for Charles Martin. Since this was the off-season there was no receptionist in the hall and Olwen had been asked to send the warden in as soon as he arrived and to see that they were not disturbed.

  When, at five minutes past two, Martin hadn’t put in an appearance, she told herself that she shouldn’t be surprised in the circumstances, but when there was still no sign of him at two-thirty she telephoned his flat. There was no reply.

  She waited ten minutes, then rang the Centre which was on a different line. Sally Hughes answered and told her that the warden had gone out about an hour before and not returned. She sounded flustered. In the background Miss Pink could hear women’s voices and they appeared to be arguing. Sally said: “Ssh, please!” and a Welsh woman said angrily: “But I’ve got to get home, miss!”

  Miss Pink asked what was wrong but she had to repeat the question because of the background noise. Sally, choosing her words, said carefully that the kitchen staff had to go home and there was no transport to take them. They lived in Bethel and it was pouring.

  “How many women?”

  “Three.”

  “I’ll come up,” Miss Pink said, “I’ll run them home.”

  As she drove up the valley she reviewed the transport at the school. If the warden was out he’d be in his own car. That left the Centre’s Land Rover, the Hughes’ car, Nell Harvey’s van . . .

  *

  Unlike the Lithgow cottage Plas Mawr was not dominated by its trees. A vista had been landscaped to the south-west and the sea. The lights were on this overcast afternoon and the sight of boys moving behind the large windows in the library and common room, sitting in window seats reading, was a sign of normal activities, and cheerful.

  Three village women were waiting in the hall, their annoyance obvious, their thanks for the lift perfunctory. Rowland Hughes appeared, heavily in charge of the situation.

  “This is most good of you, Miss Pink,” he said richly, “now if you will trust me with your vehicle, I’ll run the ladies home.”

  Sally came to the door of her office which opened off the hall. Miss Pink handed her keys to Hughes then she went in the office and shut the door.

  Sally explained the situation. The warden had taken the Land Rover, Nell and Slade were both off-duty and had taken Nell’s van, the Hughes’ car was in the village garage.

  “I see,” Miss Pink said, “and I suppose in his absence Bett couldn’t give permission for someone to take the warden’s car and to run the women home in that?”

  “She isn’t in the flat, and the car’s not in the garage.”

  “But she can’t drive!”

  “She’s passed her test now and drives a little. I didn’t know Charles was letting her drive the Jaguar but of course he must be. I mean, if he drove the Land Rover away, she must have taken the car.”

  “Quite,” Miss Pink agreed, “he had an appointment with me at two o’clock,” she added.

  “Oh, Miss Pink, I am sorry —” she trailed off; even the placid Sally could think of no defence for a warden who failed to keep an appointment with a member of the Board.

  “Will you need transport to bring the kitchen staff back for supper?” Miss Pink asked.

  “No; supper’s cold on Sundays. The boys serve it under the supervision of the duty instructor.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s me.”

  She wondered when she would come to an end of these irritating discrepancies in the Centre’s routine. Aloud she asked:

  “Who are you standing in for? You’re not an instructor.”

  “It’s the warden’s turn today.”

  “He asked you to take his place?”

  “Not exactly. He went off suddenly after lunch. I happened to be here because I’d come in this morning to type next month’s timetable but it wasn’t ready so I did something else and lunched here because I hadn’t transport to go home, so I happened to be around when the warden left. Someone has to be on duty for the phone and accidents. Forty boys unsupervised in a big building . . .” She smiled.

  “What about your own family?”

  “Rowland always lies in on Sunday if he’s not on duty, and the children are great readers. I rang Jennifer and told them to come down for lunch but she said they’d manage on their own, and didn’t seem pleased that I should imply they couldn’t.”

  “Where are the other instructors: Paul and Jim?”

  “Jim’s working on the timetable upstairs, so you see I could always call on him if I needed a hand. Paul’s off-duty. I don’t know where he is. He wasn’t in for lunch.”

  Sally went out to make a pot of tea and Miss Pink wondered if she should have a word with Lithgow about his wife but she thought better of it immediately. Her hands were tied by the fact that Linda’s distress was occasioned by the relationship between her husband and Bett Martin. It was a charged situation and when she caught up with Martin it was imperative that he should pack his bags and leave right away. If he wouldn’t resign, he must be dismissed. The Centre could afford three month’s pay in lieu of notice more easily than the couple’s presence for that time. With the Martins out of the way the basic cause of trouble would disappear. The Lithgows could be moved into the flat (the Board could work out later what to do about the new warden’s quarters) and the couple would get back on an even keel once Linda had recovered from her shock. Despite the depth of this Miss Pink couldn’t help feeling that someone was being unduly melodramatic. She was obviously very much in love with her husband and had no cause previously to doubt his loyalty
— although there was that long sojourn in the Alps, presumably without letting her know where he was. But climbing and extra-marital affairs were very different things; wives of climbers rather expected to lose their husbands to the one, but not on account of the other, which was why Miss Pink thought that Linda was making too much of it. That gay hard little Scot was no Casanova; in this context he was the pursued rather than the pursuer, she was sure of it, and probably he’d be as glad as his wife to see the back of the Martins.

  She crossed to the window to see if there was any sign of a break in the weather. She wasn’t depressed by the rain. November was usually a wet month in Wales. Nevertheless there was an atmosphere of siege about the school staff and among the wives, and this she deplored. She would have liked to assure them that they would shortly be rid of the trouble, but she ought to see Martin first. No doubt Bett would quickly publicise the fact of their dismissal. However, Sally was a sensible woman who had been carrying all the domestic and administrative duties for too long. It would be kind to give her a hint (after all, she would almost certainly know by tonight) and in view of the incident involving the kitchen staff it might be good policy if the secretary could assure them first thing tomorrow that the school was to have a new principal.

  Over tea she said to Sally: “The warden is very ill.”

  They looked at each other silently for a moment then Sally said: “The staff can’t go on much longer like this.”

  “They won’t have to.”

  “Thank you.” Sally was obviously relieved. “How soon can I tell them — or will you?”

  “I must see Martin first; it’s rather unethical, telling you before I see him, but the situation is unconventional, to say the least.”

  “He’s had so much worry,” Sally breathed, almost to herself. She looked up and caught Miss Pink’s surprise. “I won’t say anything — even to Rowland,” she added quickly as tyres spurted on gravel outside.

  “I’m returning to the Goat now,” the older woman said, “perhaps you would ask the warden to telephone me as soon as he comes in.”

  She found Hughes adjusting the driver’s seat in her car. He thanked her for the loan of it.

  “Did you see the Land Rover in the village?” she asked. If the warden were waiting for her in the Goat, the vehicle might be visible.

  His eyes looked over her shoulder.

  “I didn’t see it anywhere. Why, did you want to see him?”

  She smiled faintly.

  “How well did Mrs Martin drive?” she asked.

  He stared at her in astonishment.

  “How the —? How well did — she — drive?”

  Fascinated, she watched him recover balance but said nothing herself.

  “I’ve no idea,” he blurted, “She’d passed her test. I don’t know how well she drove. How could I?”

  “She’s not here, nor is the Jaguar.”

  “That’s nothing to do with me,” he said loudly, almost shouted — and a steady voice interposed: “Miss Pink is wondering if she’s crashed the Jaguar, I think.”

  Sally was smiling at them from the doorway.

  “That’s what’s in your mind, isn’t it? And you think the warden’s out looking for her.”

  “That seems the most likely explanation,” Miss Pink agreed, getting into her car and noting that Hughes walked towards his wife without attempting to hold the driver’s door open.

  *

  It was dusk: the bad time between daylight and dark, and coming down the narrow road between high hedges, she saw brilliant lights ahead and dipped her own. It occurred to her that this could be the Land Rover and, about to pull into a passing-place, she changed her mind and stopped the car where it blocked the road. Not wishing to take chances on the warden’s alcohol level, she left her headlights on, dipped.

  The other vehicle approached and the sound of its engine told her it was a Land Rover. It stopped and she walked to the driver’s side.

  “My wife’s gone,” Martin said without greeting or apology, “she hasn’t been home all night — last night. When I got up her bed hadn’t been slept in and the car wasn’t in the garage.”

  “Does she often drive it?”

  “She’s never taken it before.”

  “We’re blocking the road,” Miss Pink said, “turn round and come back to the hotel where we can be comfortable.”

  Chapter Four

  “I can’t bring the police in yet,” he said stubbornly.

  He raised a shaking hand to draw on his cigarette.

  They were in the writing room of the Goat.

  “How soon would you feel justified in reporting her missing?” Miss Pink asked curiously.

  “I don’t know. When would you?”

  “If my wife had been missing for hours in a powerful car which she hadn’t driven before, I would have telephoned police and hospitals first thing this morning.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  She was struck by the similarity between his wretchedness and that of Linda Lithgow. Again she felt a surge of anger against Bett Martin. Such a depth of emotional involvement was unusual in Miss Pink and to make matters worse she was uncomfortably aware that she was finding Martin pitiful. Studying him now she tried to see him and his wife simply as problems which were by no means unique, rather than people responsible for the welfare of children who were, ultimately, in the Board’s care. But she couldn’t rid herself of the awareness that although his wife’s behaviour might be accepted as an excuse for his heavy drinking, he was fundamentally weak and most unsuited for any position of responsibility.

  “I asked you to be here at two o’clock,” she told him, “because it would be better for everyone concerned if you tendered your resignation.”

  “I expected that,” he said with an attempt at a wry smile which was spoiled by his trembling mouth.

  “You will receive three months’ salary in lieu of notice and the Centre will pay the cost of removing your furniture to — your next position. I would like you to go as soon as your wife returns.”

  “Suppose she doesn’t return?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “What makes you think she’s coming back?”

  “Do you know more about her absence than you’ve told me? This wouldn’t appear to be my business,” she went on, “but if your wife’s absence affects or delays your departure then I’m afraid it becomes the Board’s business.”

  “All right, all right! I get thrown out because she sleeps around. Am I her keeper?”

  “Yes,” Miss Pink said shortly, hiding her surprise, “I shall not discuss the matter. How you deal with that affair is outside my province but I think the fact that your car is missing should be reported.”

  “She can’t drive it,” he repeated with a return to his former wretchedness.

  “Are you suggesting that someone else took it?”

  He thought about this seriously for a moment.

  “It would mean them coming in to the garage past the kitchens — and the yard all lit up . . . Why not? They could skirt round the edge of the light. I don’t think I saw her after supper. If she went then, when the women were busy serving in the kitchen, no one would be noticed in the yard.”

  “If you think someone other than your wife has taken the car, you’d be within your rights to report it as stolen.”

  “If she was with him? You do want to get rid of me, don’t you?” he said nastily, and she realised that she was concerned less with his feelings than with the nuisance of his wife having chosen this particular moment to disappear.

  “I apologise if I seem unsympathetic,” she said more gently, “but you must understand that my first consideration is the Centre, although if that were my only concern I’d try to suppress any scandal. Surely you realise that whatever your wife has done, reporting the car missing (and that’s publicising her disappearance — or her non-appearance) is going to mean gossip which will involve the Centre, at least to some extent?”


  “I’ll report it tomorrow; I’ll give her a chance. She might come back tonight. Won’t you let it rest till morning?”

  “I must speak to my colleagues on the Board. Are you going back to the Centre now? I’ll telephone you before eleven this evening. Meanwhile, if your wife returns perhaps you will contact me. She may be in a hospital with a bump on her head. Have you thought of that?”

  He stood up and said with extraordinary intensity:

  “Miss Pink, I apologise if I’ve been rude but perhaps you’ll realise what I’ve been going through when I tell you that I wouldn’t be surprised at any kind of violence that had overtaken my wife.”

  About to ignore this and leading the way to the door, she asked sharply: “Then why were you so anxious to find her this afternoon?”

  He appeared genuinely surprised. “I was looking for my car!”

  *

  Over the telephone Ted Roberts said: “You’ve told him he’s got to resign and he knows he must go tomorrow. You can’t do more than you have done. The business of reporting his wife missing is up to him, of course. It seems far more likely in the circumstances that she’s gone off with a man than that she went alone and crashed the car. But I think it would put your mind at rest if I made some discreet inquiries. A pale blue Jaguar — that should be simple. I’ll ring you back before ten. Meanwhile don’t worry. I’ll come to the Goat tomorrow after breakfast.”

  *

  “Yes,” Beresford said after he had heard her report. “I was afraid that something like this might happen. Of course he’ll have to leave tomorrow (you were quite right to say he’d receive three months’ pay in lieu, although paying for his removals . . . well, cheap at the price, I dare say), and so far as the local people are concerned she went first and he followed. In fact, it would be better if she didn’t return. You might point that out to him. Discuss it with Ted.”