The Pursued

by C. S. Forester

  Marjorie stirred restlessly beside her.

  ‘What do they say, Mother?’ she asked.

  Mrs Clair silenced her with a look; there were two other people sitting on the crowded bench, and she could say nothing for fear of being overheard. She went on reading the front page, and her new feeling of reassurance died away, and was almost replaced by dismay, as she did so. There were two short paragraphs dealing with the probable whereabouts of Mrs Grainger and Mrs Clair. There did not seem to be least doubt of their being caught soon. A watch on the ports was being maintained, but it was known that the two women had no passports. It was believed that their resources were very scanty – that meant (Mrs Clair told herself) that the police had discovered about her fifty pounds and could guess how short a time it would last. Lastly, it would be obvious to anyone that it would be easy enough to identify two women, a mother and a daughter, travelling together. There was a broad hint in conclusion for the public to keep its eyes open for them.

  Mrs Clair experienced a period of penetrating clairvoyance as she sat thinking about all this. Never before had she stopped to consider the relationships between press and police and public but now she was aware of their intricacies in a flash. Those posters over there –

  HUNT FOR TWO WOMEN

  would be enough to sell newspapers in hundreds, in thousands, and it was that which the press wanted. A manhunt was a good selling item; a woman-hunt was still better. She knew, too – it had been the same with her in the old days – that a good juicy murder helped to sell newspapers. People who read on Tuesday of a young wife suspected of murdering her husband – especially a young wife with a ‘strikingly handsome’ lover – would buy another paper on Wednesday in the hope of reading more. And a bloody affair with an axe was better reading than any cold dealings with rat poison or weed killer – Mrs Clair appreciated now how clever the police were to let out that detail to stimulate the interest of the public and to ensure the cooperation of the press.

  The hunt was in full swing now; perhaps the police could just sit back and wait for the public to do their work for them. Everyone, every hotel keeper, every lodging house keeper, would be on the lookout for a mother of fifty-nine with a daughter of thirty-two, and if they found them would deliver them up to the police with no more thought for the feelings of the two women than a huntsman has for the fox or the shooter has for the pheasant. Partly it would be to gratify their own sense of self-importance; partly because it was all part of the game the hunted women might as well be tennis balls. Mrs Clair boiled with indignation against the public for enjoying Marjorie’s troubles as though they were a free show; and then she was cold with fear again. It was all very well to assure herself that there must be thousands of pairs of mothers and daughters staying in lodgings all over England. Some of those pairs might even be suspected or arrested, for that matter – unjustly. That would hardly matter to them, for an hour’s investigation would result in their being set free again, nor did Mrs Clair care about other people’s troubles anyway. But the chance of Marjorie and her being arrested through the nosiness and self-importance of the public was what was worrying her. Until she read this newspaper she had not been specially concerned with that danger – most of her activity had been directed towards leaving no trail that the police could follow. It was maddening to think that she had been to all that trouble ineffectively; that the hounds could sit down and go to sleep until a halloo from a worker in the fields should tell them where the fox was.

  Mrs Clair’s exalted clarity of vision persisted. She saw the world as a vast expanse of menacing black water, with powerless ships floating on its surface. Here and there were whirlpools, and sometimes ships were caught in them and were whirled round and round and then dragged down for ever. She and those she knew had drifted near one of these whirlpools. Dot had gone first – Mrs Clair sighed to think of the agonies in Dot’s mind when first she had been seized and whirled round. Ted had followed her into the gaping hole. Now George Ely was caught, and was hurtling round on the very lip of the hole – it would only be a short time before he, too, should disappear, poor boy. She herself and Marjorie were just beginning to feel the drag and the suction. Perhaps they would follow George soon. And outside them, perhaps to be drawn in too, there might be others – Derrick and Anne, perhaps.

  As she formed this mental picture Mrs Clair’s mind was innocent of any thought that perhaps it was partly her fault, that perhaps she had contributed of her own volition to this disaster. To Mrs Clair it all seemed entirely inevitable, fated, predestined and it is possible that she was right.

  It was a filthy business, a tale of lust and murder and revenge, unredeemed by any of the nobler qualities of mankind, devotion, self-sacrifice, love. That was Ted’s fault. His filthiness had started it, and his filthiness had slimed everyone whom it touched. He had had to be fought on his own ground, lust for lust and passion for passion, adultery for adultery, and murder for murder. It might be best to carry the tale to its conclusion as speedily as possible, get it over and finished and forgotten.

  Mrs Clair shook herself out of that train of thought with a start. That just showed the folly of daydreaming. She had actually started to think about giving up, about handing Marjorie over to the police and the hangman. That was madness, and wicked madness at that. Never, never, never would she do that. She did not care about herself. It was the thought of Marjorie which was troubling her. She must do everything she could for Marjorie. Mrs Clair set her little white teeth – not a false one among them – and vowed to herself that she would die in the last ditch to save Marjorie. Sweet, dear, loved little Marjorie. She must start again to think about what they were to do next.

  Marjorie had her hand on her knee and was shaking her.

  ‘Mother, Mother, why don’t you listen to me!’

  ‘What is it?’ answered Mrs Clair, and added, with an effort, ‘Adelaide.’

  ‘I think I’ve just seen Mrs Posket go by along the front,’ said Marjorie.

  Mrs Clair would have started had she not controlled herself. As it was she sat rigid and silent for two or three seconds. There were people close beside them on either side; she must not display any fear of Mrs Posket.

  ‘Oh really?’ she said at length, and she hoped that her voice did not sound as stiltedly unnatural to other people as it did to herself. ‘Of course, Mrs Posket was going to Worthing for her holiday. Very likely you were right, dear, and it was her. You can get into Brighton very easily from Worthing. What – what a lovely sunny day it is, my dear.’

  The urgency of her glance made Marjorie stammer an agreement. They sat there silent, then, for two long minutes, minutes which seemed like hours, while Mrs Clair raked the promenade as far as she could see with eagle eyes. Then at last –

  ‘Well, I think we’ve sat here long enough, my dear,’ said Mrs Clair casually. ‘Let’s go on now.’

  They crossed the promenade quickly and found shelter up a steep side street.

  ‘Are you certain it was Mrs Posket?’ demanded Mrs Clair.

  ‘Yes, Mother. Quite certain. She didn’t see us.’

  ‘No, I’m sure of that,’ said Mrs Clair, bitterly. She had no illusions about what Mrs Posket would do if she saw those two friends of hers whom the police were after.

  ‘What are we going to do, Mother?’ wailed Marjorie, hurrying along at her mother’s side.

  ‘We’re going back to our lodgings. We can’t afford to be in the streets with Mrs Posket about.’

  In the hall of the lodging house they saw the landlady. She was standing, resting her back against the wall, reading a newspaper – obviously one found in the room of one of her lodgers.

  ‘You’re back early,’ said the landlady. ‘Your dinner isn’t ready yet, not by a long way.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Clair, and even while she uttered the monosyllable her questing mind thought of a lie to tell quickly. ‘We’ve just come back for a book I left
behind. We’ll be going out again until dinner time.’

  ‘I see,’ said the landlady.

  She was a tallish woman, dark, with a bony and angular face. She looked a little strangely at them, closely, running her eye up and down them with what might just be bad manners.

  ‘You run up and fetch it, Adelaide,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘Your legs are younger than mine. I’ll stay here and talk to Mrs – do you know, it’s very rude of me, but I’ve quite forgotten your name again. My memory is dreadful.’

  ‘Hudson’s my name,’ said the landlady.

  She was still staring at Mrs Clair, who felt sure now that she was noting the black hat and costume, and wondering whether her age was fifty-nine and that of her daughter was thirty-two.

  ‘Wonderful how well the summer is lasting, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Clair bravely.

  ‘Yes, it is indeed,’ said Mrs Hudson, and then, suddenly. ‘What was it like at Reading?’

  ‘Oh dreadful,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘The – the biscuit factories are so noisy.’

  ‘H’m yes. I suppose so,’ said Mrs Hudson.

  Marjorie came down the stairs again. Mrs Clair shot her a quick glance. Perhaps she could be relied upon to lie effectively. Anyway, the chance must be taken.

  ‘Have you got it, dear?’ she asked, maternally.

  ‘Yes, in my handbag,’ said Marjorie boldly. She had thought of that lie while up in the solitude of the bedroom, and had been nerving herself to say it all the way downstairs.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘Well, we’ll get along now. We’ll be back at half past twelve, Mrs Hudson.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Mrs Hudson, and they emerged again into the freedom of the street – a freedom poisoned by the possibility of their encountering Mrs Posket.

  ‘We’re not going back there at all,’ said Mrs Clair decisively. ‘It’s a pity that we’ll have to leave behind all the things we’ve just bought.’

  ‘But what are we going to do, Mother?’

  ‘We can’t go back there,’ said Mrs Clair, ignoring the question. ‘She suspects.’

  ‘Oh, Mother.’

  ‘Yes, she does. I could see that. She’ll be telling the police the first minute she has to spare, and they’ll be waiting for us at half past twelve. It’s eleven now,’ said Mrs Clair, looking up at a street clock. ‘Let’s walk along this way, where the streets are quieter.’

  And where there was less chance of meeting Mrs Posket, was the unspoken addition. Mrs Clair walked briskly along. She apparently felt no trace of the fatigue of yesterday and the day before. Marjorie at her side was stiff and weary already. She was quite unprepared too, for the decision which her mother was about to announce.

  ‘You’re going back to London, my dear,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘And I’m not coming with you, either. We’ve got to separate.’

  ‘Mother! Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I mean just what I say, my dear.’

  Mrs Clair had formed her decision rapidly enough. It was obviously unsafe for them to remain together; and just before leaving the lodging house Marjorie had told a good lie in a good way, which proved that left to herself she would be safe – Mrs Clair had never believed in mollycoddling children, either. Marjorie, as soon as she found herself compelled to think and act for herself, would probably recover at once from this complete childlike dependence on her mother which she had been displaying.

  ‘But why, Mother?’ Why must we separate?’

  ‘Because everyone’s looking for two women together. They can recognize us easily. Look at that Mrs Hudson. If we’re separate it’ll be much harder for them. They’ll never catch us. It’s the best thing we can do – the only thing for us to do.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ agreed Marjorie, doubtfully; the truth of what her mother was saying was obvious to her tired mind. ‘But why should I go back to London?’

  ‘London’s the safest place for you, dear. Anywhere else you can meet people you know. But not if you go to the other side of London. Ealing, say, or Acton, or out on the other side, Hornsey, isn’t it?’

  There was a profound truth in what Mrs Clair was saying. The opposite corners of the County of London are farther removed from each other for all practical purposes than are places fifty miles apart. The chances against any one of the few score people, all dwellers in South East London, who knew Marjorie by sight, encountering her in the side streets of Acton or Hornsey were incredibly slight. It was a self-evident truth to any suburb dweller like Marjorie.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But – but – I don’t want to leave you, Mother.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Mrs Clair, brisk and kindly. ‘You managed without me quite well all the years you were married. You’ll be able to look after yourself all right.’

  ‘I shall be lonely, Mother.’

  ‘I expect you will, dear. But no one’s ever died of loneliness yet. You’ll have plenty of money. I’ve got plenty for the two of us. We’ll go the station now. I hope there’s a train soon. Now listen carefully, dear. This is important. Here’s your money. Open your handbag. That’s right. Now you’re going to London, and as soon as you get to Victoria you must get on the Tube and go as far as you can. I think Acton would be best. You’ll have to buy yourself another suitcase and things. That’s a pity, but you’ll manage it all right. Find yourself some quiet lodgings, dear. Cheap ones. You’ll be able to live for weeks and weeks on that money if you do. Tell them you’ve got a job in the City, and go out every day as if you had. You can go to libraries and places to pass the time. And the pictures are cheap if you go before one. After about a month you can start looking for a job. You’ll get one all right, dear. You’ll find something. You’ll settle down and be happy again, and forget all about this. I’m sure you will, dear.’

  It was a long speech that Mrs Clair had poured out, tumbling the words one over the other in her anxiety to get it all said. It was a good example of her quickness of decision; she had thought it all out in the few minutes since leaving the lodging house. She had thought just as quickly as in that brief moment when Sergeant Hale had emerged from the hedge, when she had launched George Ely upon him to give her time to escape with Marjorie.

  ‘And what about you, Mother?’ asked Marjorie, unwilling and doubtful.

  ‘Oh, I shall be all right,’ said Mrs Clair. ‘I can always look after myself. I’ve got all the money I need. I’m going to get lodgings, too. Later on I’ll find a job as housekeeper. I often thought that’s what I’d do if Dot got married.’

  ‘But I don’t want to leave you, Mother,’ said Marjorie again as they turned the corner and approached the station.

  ‘Nonsense, girl. We can’t pick and choose what we want to do and don’t want to do. Here we are. Let’s go and see if there’s a train.’

  There are always plenty of trains running between London and Brighton; as it happened there was only a quarter of an hour before the next.

  ‘I’m going to say goodbye now, dear. Don’t kiss me. I shall sit over there and wait till your train goes, but we’d better not speak again. Run and buy your ticket and then get in your train. Goodbye, darling. Goodbye. Goodbye, darling.’

  Mrs Clair sat, a rather forlorn and lonely little figure, on one of the benches in the station, bravely combating the tears that made her eyes wet. She saw Marjorie emerge from the booking office with her ticket, and saw her pass the barrier safely and enter the train. She sat until the train had left, and she would have liked to have sat much longer, because now she felt desperately tired, but she feared to do that. Someone might notice her, and later that might direct the hunt after Marjorie again. With a little sigh she got up from the bench and walked out of the station, briskly and upright as was always her way, even though her eyes were still dazzled with the tears that foolishly kept welling up in them.

  Mrs Clair had no intention whatever of carrying out the programme she had sketched out to Mar
jorie. To begin with, she had no money. Everything she had, with the exception of two coppers to chink together, she had emptied into Marjorie’s handbag. She had no desire to live if she were separated from Marjorie, and she had no desire to prolong her life at the cost of increasing Marjorie’s danger – the money which was plenty for one would have been far too small if divided by two. As long as Marjorie were safe she did not care what happened to herself. She had made up her mind what she was going to do.

  She walked through the quiet side street, walking, eternally walking, trying to disregard her growing fatigue, struggling with her tears. She was quite surprised at herself when she found sobs rising in her throat. She fought them down – people would begin to notice her soon, and that would never do. Not yet, at least; a street clock showed her that it was not yet time for Marjorie’s train to have reached Victoria. She walked on and on. She knew where the police station was, because she had noticed it earlier that morning. She walked back there, when at last the clocks showed her that Marjorie was safe in London again. Outside it she paused for a moment, making sure that her clothes were tidy and her hat straight. Then she walked quietly in, up the steps. A big police sergeant was perched high up writing at a desk, and did not at first condescend to notice the little old lady who stood patiently waiting for his attention. At last he looked down at her and she told him who she was.

  21

  The carriage in which Marjorie sat, crouching in a corner, was fortunately empty. She was not quite free from observation, because it was a corridor train, and there was a steady passing to and fro of people along the passage way down the middle of the carriages. Every time anyone came along Marjorie shrank down into herself. She turned herself so that she looked out of the window and presented only the back of her head to the passers by, and she tried to screen her face, too, with her hand on her cheek. The landscape swirled by before her eyes, and the sound of the wheels beat steadily but quietly upon her ears. Everything – even the precautions she was taking to remain unobserved – seemed unreal to her except the fear that was in her heart. That was like a great pain of such overwhelming intensity that everything else became unnaturally insignificant like the circumstances of a nightmare. Fear gnawed at her heart, and coursed like white flame along her veins. The unreasoning pleasure which the human face finds in hunting has its natural counterpart in the senseless agony of the hunted. It was not possible for Marjorie to await stoically the next turn of the wheel, not to find any grim satisfaction in the mathematical calculation of the chances for or against her. She could only suffer, unthinkingly. The hour that the train took to travel from Brighton to Victoria ate away her little strength.