“Not bad, is she?” said Haldean, with all the pride of ownership. “She was in pretty bad shape when I bought her but there isn’t much old Tregarwen doesn’t know about a boat and I gave him a free hand to put her in trim.”
“He’s certainly made a good job of it,” observed Mordecai Tremaine approvingly.
Although his stomach was distressingly apt to show resentment at anything approaching a rough sea, he was always stirred by the sight of small craft bobbing at anchor and by the harbour smell of salt and cordage, tar and fish. The small boy in him was still alive to the exhilaration carried on an ocean breeze.
The qualms that had assailed him earlier proved to be without foundation. The sea was smooth and he thoroughly enjoyed his day. When Haldean brought the launch skilfully through the harbour entrance late in the afternoon Mordecai Tremaine was feeling like an old salt who had spent his life on the waves, and was wondering wolfishly what there would be to eat.
Besides physical well-being the day had also brought him mental stimulation. There was nothing like being isolated on a small boat almost out of sight of land, he reflected, for inducing confidences. He felt now that he had known Haldean for many years.
He had himself introduced the subject of Adrian Carthallow.
“You seem to be on excellent terms.”
“Adrian and I understand each other,” Haldean had said. “We don’t always see eye to eye, of course, but we don’t have any serious disagreements. At least—”
He had stopped, and Tremaine had regarded him hopefully. And after a moment or two the blond man had gone on, his eyes on the sea:
“I haven’t been altogether happy about him just lately. He’s been driving himself too hard. A man can’t keep up such a pace for ever.”
Mordecai Tremaine had thought of the two studios crowded with examples of Carthallow’s work.
“His output must be very large. But he doesn’t give me the impression of being under a strain. I thought he enjoyed his work.”
“He enjoys it all right,” Haldean had agreed. “That’s part of the danger. A creative artist will go on driving himself—or will go on being driven by his inspiration, whichever you like to choose—until the crack-up comes. One moment he’ll seem to be perfectly normal and in the next—pff! Something gives way and it’s too late for anything to be done.”
“Why don’t you try to get him to take things easily?”
Haldean had given a rueful grin.
“I have,” he had said. “And nearly had my head bitten off for suggesting it! Adrian isn’t the man to take kindly to advice from other people, no matter how tactfully it’s offered. Anyway, I’ve an idea that he doesn’t find it easy to slacken off. You see, a man gets used to living up to a certain standard; he tends to spend up to his income without realizing it. Adrian must be doing pretty well but he likes to feel the benefit of the money he earns and some of his tastes are inclined to be expensive. There’s always the possibility, too, that the market for pictures may strike a bad patch, so that he wants to gather in the harvest whilst he can. In fact—”
Haldean had broken off abruptly and had pretended to be busy with his line. He had given Mordecai Tremaine the impression that he felt that he had been on the verge of becoming a little more confidential than their newly developed intimacy warranted. He had made no attempt to finish the sentence he had begun nor had he returned to the subject of Adrian Carthallow. He had displayed, on the contrary, a decided eagerness to talk about every other topic instead.
Nevertheless, Mordecai Tremaine had added one more intriguing note to his mental record. Haldean’s remarks had linked up significantly with something Carthallow himself had said to him in response to his joking observation about being secure within the walls of Paradise because of its resemblance to a moated castle.
“Except from the income-tax collector.”
That had been Carthallow’s reply. At the time Tremaine had looked upon it as being merely humorously meant, but now he was not so certain. He was wondering whether it had sprung out of a deeper concern that was preying upon the artist’s mind.
It may have been the reason why he decided the next afternoon to take advantage of Helen Carthallow’s invitation to make use of a deck-chair on the beach just below Paradise. Unfortunately for his design, Carthallow himself was out. Explaining his errand, he was disconcerted by the look of doubting speculation in Helen Carthallow’s dark eyes, but she took him down to the beach and showed him the cave where the chairs were stored.
“It saves bringing them down each time,” she explained, “and very few people come as far up the beach as this, so that there isn’t much danger of anyone walking off with them.”
Mordecai Tremaine expressed his gratitude and looked for a spot where he could obtain the full benefit of the sun and at the same time would be undisturbed by the breeze blowing off the water.
“Forgive my running away from you,” she said to him. “I’m expecting someone to call.” She brushed back that troublesome lock of hair and her dark eyes turned full upon him. “It’s Lester,” she added. “Lester Imleyson. You met him the other night, of course.”
“Yes,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “I met him the other night. I thought he seemed rather a nice young man.”
She smiled at him but she did not rise to the obvious bait. He watched her as she crossed the sands and went up the winding path, and in a few moments her slim figure went over the bridge leading to the house.
He wished he knew what was going on in her mind. He wished he knew what she thought of her husband and what her husband thought of Lester Imleyson.
It was a pleasant day and the sun was distinctly soothing. He found it gradually becoming more and more difficult to think, and finally he ceased to think at all.
He awoke with the irregular whisper of the waves in his ears and a crick in his neck where he had been lying awkwardly in the deck-chair. He opened his eyes to find himself looking at the rocks fringing the cliffs against which he had taken up his position. Lying on them, fifteen or twenty yards away, were bathing wraps and towels.
He was looking along the beach and beyond the rocks he could just make out the edge of the surf where the curve of the bay brought it within his line of vision. Two figures were coming towards him, obviously just having left the water.
One was a man and the other a woman. He saw the woman take off her bathing cap, shaking free her hair, and he recognized Helen Carthallow. Her companion was Lester Imleyson. They joined hands and came running up the beach like children in a holiday mood.
Mordecai Tremaine admitted afterwards that it was dubious conduct but he closed his eyes and lay without movement as though he was still asleep. Their voices became clearer. He heard Helen Carthallow say:
“I’m sorry, Lester. I really can’t.”
“But why not?” came Imleyson’s persuasive tones. “I’ve got the car parked in a quiet spot. I’m sure nobody’s likely to see us go. We could drive up to the moors and be back in time for dinner.”
Helen Carthallow’s voice was reluctant but adamant.
‘It’s no good, Lester. I promised Adrian I’d sit for him for an hour. He’ll be here at any moment.”
“Why not let him wait for a change? He isn’t painting you out of the goodness of his heart. You know that.” Imleyson sounded sulky. “Anyway, if he must do somebody’s portrait, I’ll get Roberta to come over. She’ll jump at the chance.”
“He is my husband,” she said.
“You needn’t rub it in,” he returned bitterly. “Why the devil doesn’t he have the decency to give you a divorce? The swine’s just playing with us both. He—”
Mordecai Tremaine, eyes shut fast, did not see Helen Carthallow’s warning gesture but he knew that she had made it. Imleyson said, in a lower tone:
“It’s all right. He’s asleep.”
But there was no more conversation. Mordecai Tremaine fought against an almost intolerable series of desires. His eyelids seemed to b
e trying to force themselves open. His neck and shoulder were giving him the sensation of being a prisoner in a straight jacket. And, of course, he wanted to sneeze—devastatingly and explosively.
He held on until the strain was impossible to be borne and then opened his eyes wide. He heaved a sigh of relief. The bathing wraps and the towels had gone. Cautiously, like a man coming out of a deep sleep, he straightened himself in his chair. After another moment or two he got to his feet. The path leading up the cliffs was deserted; the bridge over his head was empty.
He folded the chair and replaced it in the cave. The tide was coming in fast but he thought there would still be time to walk back along the beach before it cut off the next headland in the Falporth direction. He did not think he was likely to meet either Helen Carthallow or Imleyson if he used the cliff path, but he had no desire to take the risk. He was afraid he might betray himself.
Normally he would have explored the caves he passed on the way, but he was in no mood now for any such small boy’s pastime. The situation upon which he had just been gazing possessed too adult a flavour for that.
He arrived back at the Tynings’ in a mood of unusual depression, and he was glad that his host had reserved seats at the Falporth Follies for that evening. It would serve to rid his mind of the unpleasant thoughts that were crowding upon him.
He was secretly expecting a fourth-rate concert party, with a soprano who had once been passably good-looking but whose voice and whose figure had suffered together from the relentless march of time, and a knockabout comedian whose patter would be a re-hash of all the more tested of the hardy annuals. He was agreeably surprised to find a sparkling show in which clever material was neatly put over; in which the chorus work was well-timed; and in which there was even some creditable attempt, despite the limitations of the small stage, at presenting scenes worthy of a far more pretentious revue.
Mordecai Tremaine settled back to enjoy himself and forgot all about Helen Carthallow and the triangle known as eternal.
For precisely thirty-five minutes.
Among the male members of the company was a rather short individual whose dinner jacket gave him a somewhat squat appearance. He took part in the opening number and it crossed Mordecai Tremaine’s mind on first noting him that there was something familiar about him. Thereafter, however, he vanished from the stage and that fleeting impression was lost in the delight engendered by an exceedingly polished rendering of My Hero from the Chocolate Soldier by a lady who seemed to be quite young and who was undoubtedly attractive.
But thirty-five minutes from the opening bars from the pianist the squat gentleman made his appearance again. He came down to the footlights and proceeded to give a series of impersonations of well-known film and radio stars. It was a very able performance and it well merited the prolonged applause he received.
It was applause in which Mordecai Tremaine joined in a very preoccupied manner. For he had recognized the other now and he was certain that it was the shabby man whom he had seen with Adrian Carthallow in the East End of London. That queer-shaped head was unmistakable.
As soon as the house lights went up he studied his programme. It was an easy matter to identify the impressionist, for all the scenes were numbered. He was billed as Morton Westfield. There was a small inset photograph of him on a page set apart for photographs of the various members of the company. The photograph confirmed the recognition.
It was, thought Mordecai Tremaine, a highly curious coincidence. If it was a coincidence.
13
ADRIAN CARTHALLOW, BRUSH held at arm’s length, was engaged upon a water-colour of the magnificent fury of surf and spray at Trecarne Head. Seated upon a nearby rock Mordecai Tremaine had watched the quick, confident movements from the first bold charcoal outlines to these final touches of colour that were completing a painting vividly alive.
He had encountered the artist coming across the bridge leading from Paradise, and when he had seen the canvas sketching bag the other carried he had thought that his plan to spend the afternoon in an intimate atmosphere that might lead to interesting confidences had headed into an early failure. But to his surprise Carthallow had invited him to go along with him.
“If you won’t be bored, of course.”
“Good heavens, no,” Tremaine had returned, as if the thought was heresy. “You’re sure you won’t mind my being around whilst you’re working?”
“I’ll be delighted to have someone to talk to. The only time I object to people seeing how the wheels go round is when I’m working on a portrait. I am inclined to be difficult then.”
Carthallow had fetched his car from the stone-built garage near the entrance to the bridge and had driven them both to Trecarne Head. He had set up his easel at a point where the cliffs dipped steeply to form a valley and from which it was possible to see the full grandeur of the cluster of great rocks below.
Tremaine watched him, fascinated by the apparently effortless way in which the scene came into being under his swiftly moving brush.
“What a marvellous thing colour is,” he observed, as a broad band of yellow ochre swept across the sky.
Carthallow gave a chuckle.
“You think it’s a case of the light that never was on land or sea?’ ” Light red followed the yellow ochre. “I know this isn’t the sky you can see at this moment, but I don’t believe in turning out a mere photograph. After all, a camera can do that and do it much better. I like to capture the atmosphere of a place and give it warmth and emotion.”
Mordecai Tremaine left his rocky seat, and, over Carthallow’s shoulder, he studied the painting. From the palette, with its neatly ranged pigments, grey, ultramarine, light red and raw umber had gone in turn to be transformed into the rocks and cliffs; the sea that boiled around them had not long before been uninspiring patches of grey and ultramarine and emerald green. He stood filled with the layman’s admiration before the metamorphosis. It was not Trecarne Head as it now appeared but it was a Trecarne Head that no one who knew the spot could fail to recognize.
“You’ve caught it perfectly,” he said.
Carthallow warmed visibly under the praise although he affected a due modesty. Mordecai Tremaine thought that the moment had come. If there was anything to hide, surely now, completely off his guard, the other would reveal it.
“By the way,” he said, “I saw an acquaintance of yours last night.”
“Yes?”
“At the show at the Pavilion,” Tremaine went on. “I went last night for the first time and saw him there. It was the fellow with whom you were talking when I ran into you that day in the East End—in one of the streets near the Tower.”
Adrian Carthallow’s hand, neatly touching in a corner of the sky, was quite steady.
“Which fellow?” he said casually.
“Rather a seedy-looking merchant,” said Tremaine. “At least, he was at that time. Has a peculiarly shaped head—seems as though it’s been flattened.”
Carthallow frowned. He studied the painting, inserted a final dab of colour, and sat back to study it critically.
“Oh,” he said. “That one. You say you saw him at the Follies? I shouldn’t think so. You must have been mistaken.”
“No,” persisted Mordecai Tremaine, “I’m sure I wasn’t mistaken. It was the same man all right. He’s billed as Morton Westfield.”
“Is he?” Carthallow removed the painting carefully from the easel and began to pack up. “I don’t know his name—he’s a chap I thought might sit for me, but it didn’t come to anything. It can’t possibly be him you saw. My man was a typical East Ender—not the sort to be appearing in a show like the Follies here. Maybe there’s a certain superficial resemblance. It’s surprising how many near doubles there are in the world.”
He seemed completely unconcerned, as though the matter had no interest for him. He picked up his sketching bag and led the way back to the car. So that, Mordecai Tremaine told himself, was that.
It was surprising how
quickly he had assimilated and been assimilated by the little circle that revolved about the Carthallows. Already he knew their backgrounds and their relationships with each other. The only person about whom he was at all doubtful was Elton Steele. He could not satisfy himself about the big, dark man with his slow manner of speaking and his ability to efface himself and yet seem to be a force to be reckoned with.
Steele always gave him a disconcerting impresssion of knowing far more than he revealed. His strong face invariably held an expression that appeared to suggest that although he might not say a great deal he was capable of taking the lead among them if he so desired.
It rather annoyed Mordecai Tremaine. He disliked strong, silent men who affected a pose of superiority. He preferred ordinary mortals who spoke their minds.
“You’re being too hard on Elton,” said Hilda Eveland, when he opened his heart to her. “He isn’t like that at all. He’s the solid, faithful sort. He’s probably given you that idea of him because—”
She broke off. Mordecai Tremaine said:
“Because?”
“Oh—nothing.”
They were on the footpath leading across the fields to Pencran, which lay some two or three miles from Falporth. Hilda Eveland had described Pencran as an attractive little village set behind the sandhills and had said that Mordecai Tremaine ought to see its twelfth-century church which had recently been restored.
“Suppose you act as my guide?” he had suggested, and the idea had appealed to her.
They could see the scattered roofs of the village in front of them. On a hill to their left was the grey stone church, bleakly exposed to the winds from the sea. They went up the narrow road to explore its cool, dark interior, with its ancient font and exquisitely carved choir screen, and then made their way back down into the village where neatly set out tea-gardens waited beguilingly in their path. It was still early when they came out and it was Hilda Eveland who suggested a walk across the dunes before they caught the bus back into Falporth.
So Pretty a Problem Page 15
