The breeze was strong enough to be pleasantly cooling but not so boisterous that it whipped the sand into their faces. Mordecai Tremaine enjoyed himself strolling along the uneven path with the Atlantic surf sounding musically in his ears. He was revelling so enthusiastically in his surroundings, in fact, that he failed to notice two people who were occupying one of the sheltered hollows between the dunes and almost stumbled over them.
It was obvious that he had interrupted a very intimate scene. The two had been lying with their arms around each other, clearly not expecting to be disturbed in such a secluded spot. Mordecai Tremaine hesitated, uttered a somewhat incoherent apology and hurried on.
Two minutes later, when they were out of earshot, Hilda Eveland said:
“You saw who they were, of course.”
“Yes,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “I’m afraid I did.”
“It’s an open secret,” said Hilda Eveland. “Everybody knows Lester’s crazy about her.”
Tremaine’s mild face was troubled.
“Mr. Carthallow,” he said. “Is he—does he—”
“Does Adrian know? Surely you don’t think he’d let anything like this escape him?”
“When I first met Mr. Carthallow,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “I thought he was very much in love with his wife.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Hilda Eveland returned dryly. “That’s Adrian’s technique. The smile on the face of the tiger.” She studied her companion’s distressed expression and her own features softened. “I know your trouble, Mordecai. You like to believe the best of people. It gives you a blind spot. I don’t know your opinion of Adrian, but you can take it from me that the right word for him is louse.”
Mordecai Tremaine stopped. Hilda Eveland’s face was flushed. The normal good humour had quite gone from her eyes.
“I didn’t imagine,” he said slowly, “that you felt like that about him. I’ve heard criticisms of him, of course—that portrait of Miss Neale, for instance, led to a lot of comment. But I put most of it down to the kind of thing any successful man has to contend with.”
“Christine Neale’s portrait was only one of Adrian’s unpleasant little efforts. He painted her like that deliberately to make her squirm—because he likes hurting people. We don’t go around talking about it, but we all know what he’s really like. We know what he does to Helen. That’s why Elton hates him so badly.”
“Steele? Hates him?” Mordecai Tremaine looked shocked. “I didn’t dream of anything like that.”
“I don’t suppose you did,” she said. “On the surface everything seems to be friendly and normal, but underneath it’s a pretty devil’s brew.” Hilda Eveland’s voice took on a sober note. “Sometimes, Mordecai, I frighten myself wondering what’s going to come of it.”
“If Carthallow knows about Imleyson,” said Mordecai Tremaine, searching for something substantial to grasp, “hasn’t he taken any steps about it? Surely he doesn’t just sit back and let it go on?”
“That’s part of the technique. Adrian isn’t in love with Helen. He isn’t in love with anyone except Adrian. But he won’t give her a divorce. He keeps up a pretence that he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong, knowing all the time that he’s torturing her.”
“Why did she marry him?” said Mordecai Tremaine.
He thought as soon as the words were out that he had phrased the question brutally, but his companion gave no sign that she had noticed it.
“I suppose she must have been in love with him once,” she said. “After all, he’s pretty successful with women, although he doesn’t seem to want to bother with them. They throw themselves at his head, even now. Take Christine Neale, for instance—or Roberta.”
“I must say,” he observed, “I feel rather sorry for Miss Fairham. He snubs her so pointedly. And she seems so—so ineffectual.”
Hilda Eveland said:
“I wouldn’t underestimate Roberta. She’s deeper than she looks.”
They went on in silence for a moment or two, and then Mordecai Tremaine said:
“If the situation is as bad as you say, I wonder that Lester Imleyson hasn’t tried to do something about it.”
“You mean why haven’t they gone off together?” Hilda shook her head. “Lester hasn’t a real job and the only money he has is what his father allows him. If he left Falporth the situation wouldn’t be too good. Besides, maybe Helen wouldn’t go with him. I’ve known her a long time but even I wonder whether I really understand her or whether I can be sure of what she’ll do next.”
Tremaine knew what she meant. It fitted so well with what he had already seen of Helen Carthallow. It was no easy matter to make contact with the real woman who must lie beneath the vivid lips and the overbright manner of the wife of Adrian Carthallow, successful artist who believed in keeping himself news.
They were leaving the sand dunes now and coming back into the village. Hilda Eveland said:
“I’m sorry if I’ve made it all sound very sordid. We’re not a very pleasant collection of people, are we?”
“Human beings,” said Mordecai Tremaine, a little sententiously, “are such complex organisms that it’s inevitable that their relationships should sometimes be difficult to unravel.”
He saw that she was looking at him with a twinkle of amusement again and added hastily:
“Where does Mr. Haldean come into the picture?”
“If you mean is he in love with Helen,” she returned, “the answer is that he isn’t. I think he’s fond of her, but that’s hardly the same thing. You haven’t been getting any notions about him, have you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help getting notions about people,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “I’ve allowed it to develop into a kind of habit. But I didn’t think Mr. Haldean was in love with Mrs. Carthallow. As a matter of fact, I had rather a different idea about him. It was because of a photograph I saw on his dressing-table the other day.”
“A photograph?”
“Yes—of an attractive, dark-haired girl with rather a nice face. He called her Margaret. From the way he spoke about her I gathered that she was the reason he had never married. He said that she’d died a long time ago.”
“Margaret?” Hilda Eveland frowned. “Lewis usually tells me all about himself but I don’t remember him speaking of anyone of that name.”
Mordecai Tremaine did not reply. His thoughts were a long way off, going back over the years. He believed that he had a common bond with Lewis Haldean, for he himself had remained a bachelor only because the woman he had loved had died tragically soon.
It was a chapter in his life about which few people had ever learned and about which he did not speak. Which was why Hilda Eveland never knew the reason for the depression which was upon him as they made their way back to Falporth.
14
IF MORDECAI TREMAINE had not suspected any undercurrents of feeling before his excursion to Pencran, he would have been on the watch for them after his experience in Hilda Eveland’s company. In addition, her candour had caused him to go back over his contacts with Adrian Carthallow and the results of his mental researches had not improved his opinion of the artist. Carthallow’s attitude became decidedly suspect in the light of this new interpretation.
It made him judge what he saw and heard in the succeeding days with a degree of cynicism and suspicion he had not previously possessed. He realized that he was now seeing things of which the others had been aware all the time.
He looked at Elton Steele and saw, instead of a detached, placid man, secure in his physical strength, a man in whose dark eyes hate was brooding but whose emotions were being kept rigidly and frighteningly under control. He looked at Adrian Carthallow, and instead of the exuberant, good-natured creative artist, proud of his success, he saw the sardonic amusement of the sadist, delighting to wound in secret, firing verbal darts his victims could not deflect without self-betrayal. He looked at Helen Carthallow, and beneath the gaiety of her voice and her laughter he detected the nerv
ous strain of a woman who was nursing a fear that was steadily overwhelming her.
He thought of what Hilda Eveland had said about being frightened where it was going to end, and the brittleness of Helen Carthallow’s manner and the way in which he sometimes caught Elton Steele looking at her made him frightened, too. It was impossible for human beings to go on indefinitely under such an increasing tension. Sooner or later something—or somebody—was going to break.
Even Lewis Haldean was not immune from the atmosphere. His enthusiasms and dramatic poses seemed forced on occasions. Outwardly he was on the best of terms with Carthallow, but signs were not wanting that they frequently did not see eye to eye. Haldean gave the impression of being a man who was trying to preserve a fabric he knew must inevitably come to pieces in his hand; he was, Mordecai Tremaine thought, like an actor striving to maintain a play against a hostile audience and in which even his fellow players were undoing his efforts.
Two days after the Pencran incident there was a swimming and sun-bathing party on the beach and in the early evening they all went back to Paradise at Carthallow’s invitation. The conversation was gay, and even Elton Steele had joined in with a greater display of high spirits than was usual with him.
Mordecai Tremaine and Hilda Eveland were the last to climb the steep path up the cliffs. Tremaine said:
“A very enjoyable afternoon.”
Hilda’s plump face regarded him smilingly. She stopped with her hand upon the rail to gain her breath.
“I’m glad,” she said. “I was beginning to be afraid, Mordecai, that I’d spoilt everything for you by letting my tongue run away with me the other day.”
“Mrs. Carthallow seems in excellent spirits.”
She nodded, as they began to climb the steps again.
“For once Adrian’s been acting as though he’s genuinely fond of her. I hope it’s a sign that the tide’s going to turn.”
But later, when they were in the house, Mordecai Tremaine’s optimism began to dwindle. The first sign of discord came when he encountered Haldean and Carthallow as they descended the stairs from the studio. Carthallow was saying, a note of irritation in his voice:
“Damn it all, Lewis, I’m not a child! I know what I’m doing! You’ll get your money all right.”
“You know I’m not worried over the money for its own sake,” said Haldean. “It’s you I’m thinking of. All this isn’t doing your work any good. And if you break down what’s going to happen then?”
“It’ll be my worry,” snapped Carthallow. “You don’t need to preach so much. D’you think I don’t know the mess I’m in?”
And then he saw Mordecai Tremaine and a sullen resentment smouldered in his eyes. Haldean looked uncomfortable. Tremaine decided that there was only one thing to do and effaced himself as though he had heard nothing.
The second incident occurred after dinner. Most of the company were in the open air, and when Hilda Eveland asked him if he would fetch her handbag which she had left in the lounge, Tremaine did not realize that the room was occupied. His approach was quite silent and his hand was on the door when he heard Helen Carthallow’s voice from inside.
“Tell me the truth, Lewis. How much is it?”
Mordecai Tremaine should, of course, have knocked and gone in at once. He would have been the first to admit that his conduct in remaining where he was did not qualify for inclusion among the things done in the best circles. But his natural curiosity had received a stimulus from Hilda Eveland and it was momentarily impossible for him to move from the door.
Haldean’s vibrant voice sounded unwilling.
“Nothing large enough for you to worry about, my dear.”
“How much, Lewis?” she insisted.
“About five thousand.”
She gave an exclamation of dismay.
“As much as that—”
Haldean’s voice came hastily.
“I’m not a rich man, Helen, but I’m not a poor one either, and you know my wants aren’t many. I’m in no hurry. There’s no question of my pressing Adrian.”
“I know that, Lewis,” she said quietly.
“Besides,” he went on, “a man in Adrian’s position can soon make enough to settle such a comparatively small sum. After all, he’s a success. He can command his own prices.”
“Do you think so?” she said, and there was a bitterness in her voice. “A lot of people think that Adrian must be a rich man, but if you spend money quicker than you make it you don’t accumulate much more than an overdraft. You and I understand each other, Lewis, so there’s no need to pretend. Adrian doesn’t tell me much about his affairs, but I do know that he’s been drawing more cheques than he’s been paying in. He hasn’t had many commissions just lately. His work doesn’t sell as well as you might imagine. One or two things haven’t made him exactly popular and it does make a difference.”
“I know he’s rather inclined to cross swords with people,” Haldean agreed, “but, after all, if he paints what he sees he’s only being true to himself as an artist.”
Her voice was dry.
“You don’t need to make excuses for him, Lewis. Not to me.” She laughed. It was not a sound that had any humour in it. “I dare say you’re thinking it’s odd that I should be showing so much anxiety about Adrian. I suppose it’s because I’ve grown so used to playing the dutiful wife in public that I can’t step out of the role too easily.”
Mordecai Tremaine was feeling that he had stayed long enough. His conscience was behaving very unpleasantly indeed.
He walked softly back down the hall and then came forward again, ostentatiously clearing his throat. He opened the door and went into the lounge.
“Oh—I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t realize there was anyone here. Hilda left her bag behind. Ah—there it is.”
He picked up the article in question and made his exit. He was relieved when the door had closed behind him. It was disconcerting to know that two pairs of eyes were watching his every movement, and that each pair contained both suspicion, and conjecture as to just how long he had been waiting outside the door and just how much he had overheard.
15
FOR SO LONG had Mordecai Tremaine trained himself to arise at 6.30 a.m. that the process was no longer attended by pain. He awoke each morning automatically, and, springing from his bed, performed his routine exercises. His sparse, pyjama-clad figure did not—and would not now—bear any resemblance to the mighty torsos of the physical culture advertisements, but he was convinced that he derived great benefit from the rapid jerks in which he indulged in front of his open window.
Breathing deeply, like a man well satisfied with life since he was aware that he had, this morning at least, done all those things he ought to have done, he went out on to the cliffs. Normally his pre-breakfast stroll took him over the path leading to Falporth; today, he thought, he would vary his programme and would walk along the sands in the opposite direction. They looked flat, clean and inviting; the air was rich with the tang of seaweed and salt.
His enthusiasm took him further than he had intended. Sometimes walking briskly over the firm, golden beach, sometimes scrambling over the tumbled rocks running out here and there from the main cliff, he went on until a glance at his watch reminded him that unless he took care he would be late for breakfast. And a breakfast prepared by Kate Tyning was something no reasonable man would wish to miss.
He decided that he would go as far as the other side of the outcrop of rocks facing him and would climb the steps he knew lay a few yards beyond so that he could walk back by the upper path.
Out by the low road and back by the high road, he was thinking happily, and then he saw Adrian Carthallow.
There was another man with him. It was the shabby man to whom he had been talking that day in the East End. The man with the curiously shaped head who was now appearing with the Falporth Follies, under the name Morton Westfield. The man whom Carthallow had denied knowing only a day or two before.
Mordecai Tremaine drew quickly back out of sight. It was an instinctive movement, prompted by some inner sense of warning he could not explain. The two were deep in conversation and he knew they had not seen him. The sand had muffled his approach and in any case the constant swish of the surf would have prevented any slight sound he might have made from reaching their ears.
At the point where the two were standing the rocks shielded them from observation. Unless someone approached directly along the sands, as Tremaine had done, they could not be overlooked, and at this comparatively early hour it was unlikely that many people would be astir, particularly so far from the main beaches.
Cautiously Tremaine moved closer. Keeping in the shelter of the rocks he managed to reach a spot no more than a few yards from Carthallow and his companion and yet where he was concealed from their view. The workings of his conscience were faint indeed. Adrian Carthallow had lied about the man who was calling himself Westfield. That significant fact, allied to the knowledge he already possessed concerning the artist, was sufficient to justify an attempt to find out more about the relationship between them.
They were talking in guarded voices and even the muted noise of the surf was enough to muffle their words. Only a phrase or two could be distinguished. Tremaine heard Westfield say:
“Reynolds . . . Belmont satisfied . . . get a good figure . . .”
And then Carthallow’s voice, louder, sharpened by anger.
“Damn it, man, d’you think you can turn out these things like sausages?”
The voices were lost again. Tremaine pressed closer to the rock but it was impossible for him to hear what was being said. Until, so close that it startled him, he heard Carthallow say:
“We’d better not meet again down here. It’s too risky. There’s an interfering old busybody called Tremaine who saw us in Town and recognized you the other night at the Pavilion. If he sees us together he’s quite likely to make himself a damned nuisance.”
“He doesn’t—” began the other quickly, and Carthallow took him up with a laugh.
So Pretty a Problem Page 16
