by Ngaio Marsh
‘I can’t, old boy. Good God, do you suppose that if I could chuck it away or burn it with anything like a clear conscience I wouldn’t do it? I tell you I hate this job.’
He returned the envelope to the breast pocket of his coat. ‘You’re free, of course,’ he said, ‘to talk this over with Lady Lacklander and Mark. Your father made no reservations about that. By the way, I’ve brought a copy of his letter in case you decide to tell them about it. Here it is.’ The Colonel produced a third envelope, laid it on the desk and moved towards the door. ‘And George,’ he said, ‘I beg you to believe I am sorry. I’m deeply sorry. If I could see any other way I’d thankfully take it. What?’
George Lacklander had made an inarticulate noise. He now pointed a heavy finger at the Colonel.
‘After this,’ he said, ‘I needn’t tell you that any question of an understanding between your girl and my boy is at an end.’
The Colonel was so quiet for so long that both men became aware of the ticking of a clock on the chimney breast.
‘I didn’t know,’ he said at last, ‘that there was any question of an understanding. I think you must be mistaken.’
‘I assure you that I am not. However, we needn’t discuss it. Mark … and Rose, I am sure … will both see that it is quite out of the question. No doubt you are as ready to ruin her chances as you are to destroy our happiness.’ For a moment he watched the Colonel’s blank face. ‘She’s head over heels in love with him,’ he added, ‘you can take my word for it.’
‘If Mark has told you this –’
‘Who says Mark told me? … I – I …’
The full, rather florid voice faltered and petered out.
‘Indeed,’ the Colonel said, ‘then may I ask where you got your information?’
They stared at each other and, curiously, the look of startled conjecture which had appeared on George Lacklander’s face was reflected on the Colonel’s. ‘It couldn’t matter less, in any case,’ the Colonel said. ‘Your informant, I am sure, is entirely mistaken. There’s no point in my staying. Goodbye.’
He went out. George, transfixed, saw him walk past the window. A sort of panic came over him. He dragged the telephone across his desk and with an unsteady hand dialled Colonel Cartarette’s number. A woman’s voice answered.
‘Kitty!’ he said. ‘Kitty, is that you?’
III
Colonel Cartarette went home by the right-of-way known as the River Path. It ran through Nunspardon from the top end of Watt’s Lane skirting the Lacklanders’ private golf course. It wound down to Bottom Bridge and up the opposite side to the Cartarettes’ spinney. From thence it crossed the lower portion of Commander Syce’s and Mr Phinn’s demesnes and rejoined Watt’s Lane just below the crest of Watt’s Hill.
The Colonel was feeling miserable. He was weighed down by his responsibility and upset by his falling out with George Lacklander who, pompous old ass though the Colonel thought him, was a lifetime friend. Worst of all he was wretchedly disturbed by the suggestion that Rose had fallen in love with Mark and by the inference, which he couldn’t help drawing, that George Lacklander had collected this information from the Colonel’s wife.
As he walked down the hillside he looked across the little valley into the gardens of Jacob’s Cottage, Uplands and Hammer Farm. There was Mr Phinn dodging about with a cat on his shoulder. ‘Like a blasted old warlock,’ thought the Colonel, who had fallen out with Mr Phinn over the trout stream, and there was poor Syce blazing away with his bow-and-arrow at his padded target. And there, at Hammer, was Kitty. With a characteristic movement of her hips she had emerged from the house in skintight velvet trousers and a flame-coloured top. Her long cigarette-holder was in her hand. She seemed to look across the valley at Nunspardon. The Colonel felt a sickening jolt under his diaphragm. ‘How I could!’ he thought (though subconsciously). ‘How I could!’ Rose was at her evening employment cutting off the deadheads in the garden. He sighed and looked up to the crest of the hill and there, plodding homewards, pushing her bicycle up Watt’s Lane, her uniform and hat appearing in gaps and vanishing behind hedges, was Nurse Kettle. ‘In Swevenings,’ thought the Colonel, ‘she crops up like a recurring decimal.’
He came to the foot of the hill and to Bottom Bridge. The bridge divided his fishing from Mr Danberry-Phinn’s; he had the lower reaches and Mr Phinn the upper. It was about the waters exactly under Bottom Bridge that they had fallen out. The Colonel crossed from Mr Phinn’s side to his own, folded his arms on the stone parapet and gazed into the sliding green world beneath. At first he stared absently but after a moment his attention sharpened. In the left bank of the Chyne near a broken-down boat shed where an old punt was moored, there was a hole. In its depths eddied and lurked a shadow among shadows; the Old ’Un. ‘Perhaps,’ the Colonel thought, ‘perhaps it would ease my mind a bit if I came down before dinner. He may stay on my side.’ He withdrew his gaze from the Old ’Un to find when he looked up at Jacob’s Cottage, that Mr Phinn, motionless, with his cat still on his shoulder, was looking at him through a pair of field-glasses.
‘Ah, hell!’ muttered the Colonel. He crossed the bridge and passed out of sight of Jacob’s Cottage and continued on his way home.
The path crossed a narrow meadow and climbed the lower reach of Watt’s Hill. His own coppice and Commander Syce’s spinney concealed from the Colonel the upper portions of the three demesnes. Someone was coming down the path at a heavy jog-trot. He actually heard the wheezing and puffing of this person and recognized the form of locomotion practised by Mr Phinn before the latter appeared wearing an old Norfolk jacket and tweed hat which, in addition to being stuck about with trout-fishing flies, had Mr Phinn’s reading spectacles thrust through the band like an Irishman’s pipe. He was carrying his elaborate collection of fishing impediments. He had the air of having got himself together in a hurry and was attended by Mrs Thomasina Twitchett, who, after the manner of her kind, suggested that their association was purely coincidental.
The path was narrow. It was essential that someone should give way and the Colonel, sick of rows with his neighbours, stood on one side. Mr Phinn jogged glassily down upon him. The cat suddenly cantered ahead.
‘Hallo, old girl,’ said the Colonel. He stooped down and snapped a finger and thumb at her. She stared briefly and passed him with a preoccupied air, twitching the tip of her tail.
The Colonel straightened up and found himself face to face with Mr Phinn.
‘Good evening,’ said the Colonel.
‘Sir,’ said Mr Phinn. He touched his dreadful hat with one finger, blew out his cheeks and advanced. ‘Thomasina,’ he added, ‘hold your body more seemly.’
For Thomasina, waywardly taken with the Colonel, had returned and rolled on her back at his feet.
‘Nice cat,’ said the Colonel, and added: ‘Good fishing to you. The Old ’Un lies below the bridge on my side, by the way.’
‘Indeed?’
‘As no doubt you guessed,’ the Colonel added against his better judgement, ‘when you watched me through your field-glasses.’
If Mr Phinn had contemplated a conciliatory position he at once abandoned it. He made a belligerent gesture with his net. ‘The landscape, so far as I am aware,’ he said, ‘is not under some optical interdict. It may be viewed, I believe. To the best of my knowledge, there are no squatter’s rights over the distant prospect of the Chyne.’
‘None whatever. You can stare,’ said the Colonel, ‘at the Chyne, or me or anything else you fancy till you are black in the face for all I care. But if you realized … If you …’ He scratched his head, a gesture that with the Colonel denoted profound emotional disturbance. ‘My dear Phinn …’ he began again, ‘if you only knew … God bless my soul what does it matter! Good evening to you.’
He encircled Mr Phinn and hurried up the path. ‘And for that grotesque,’ he thought resentfully, ‘for that impossible, that almost certifiable buffoon I have saddled myself with a responsibility that may well make me wr
etchedly uncomfortable for the rest of my life.’
He mended his pace and followed the path into the Hammer coppice. Whether summoned by maternal obligations or because she had taken an inscrutable cat’s fancy to the Colonel, Thomasina Twitchett accompanied him, trilling occasionally and looking about for an evening bird. They came within view of the lawn and there was Commander Syce, bow in hand, quiver at thigh and slightly unsteady on his feet, hunting about in the underbrush.
‘Hallo, Cartarette,’ he said. ‘Lost a damned arrow. What a thing! Missed the damned target and away she went.’
‘Missed it by a dangerously wide margin, didn’t you?’ the Colonel rejoined rather testily. After all, people did use the path, he reflected and he began to help in the search. Thomasina Twitchett, amused by the rustle of leaves, pretended to join in the hunt.
‘I know,’ Commander Syce agreed, ‘rotten bad show, but I saw old Phinn and it put me off. Did you hear what happened about me and his cat? Damnedest thing you ever knew! Purest accident, but the old whatnot wouldn’t have it. Great grief, I told him, I like cats.’
He thrust his hand into a heap of dead leaves. Thomasina Twitchett leapt merrily upon it and fleshed her claws in his wrist. ‘Perishing little bastard,’ said Commander Syce. He freed himself and aimed a spank at her which she easily avoided and being tired of their company, made for her home and kittens. The Colonel excused himself and turned up through the spinney into the open field below his own lawn.
His wife was in her hammock dangling a tightly-encased black velvet leg, a flame-coloured sleeve and a pair of enormous earrings. The cocktail tray was ready on her iron table.
‘How late you are,’ she said idly. ‘Dinner in half an hour. What have you been up to at Nunspardon?’
‘I had to see George.’
‘What about?’
‘Some business his father asked me to do.’
‘How illuminating.’
‘It was very private, my dear.’
‘How is George?’
The Colonel remembered George’s empurpled face and said: ‘Still rather upset.’
‘We must ask him to dinner. I’m learning to play golf with him tomorrow, by the way. He’s giving me some clubs. Nice, isn’t it?’
‘When did you arrange that?’
‘Just now. About twenty minutes ago,’ she said, watching him.
‘Kitty, I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘You don’t by any chance suspect me of playing you false with George, do you?’
‘Well,’ said the Colonel after a long pause, ‘are you?’
‘No.’
‘I still think it might be better not to play golf with him tomorrow.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘Kitty, what have you said to George about Mark and Rose?’
‘Nothing you couldn’t have seen for yourself, darling. Rose is obviously head over heels in love with Mark.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘My good Maurice, you don’t suppose the girl is going to spend the rest of her existence doting on Daddy, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t have it for the world. Not for the world.’
‘Well, then.’
‘But I … I didn’t know … I still don’t believe …’
‘He turned up here five minutes ago looking all churned up and they’re closeted together in the drawing-room. Go and see. I’ll excuse your changing, if you like.’
‘Thank you, my dear,’ the Colonel said miserably and went indoors.
If he hadn’t been so rattled and worried he would no doubt have given some sort of warning of his approach. As it was he crossed the heavy carpet of the hall, opened the drawing-room door and discovered his daughter locked in Mark Lacklander’s arms from which embrace she was making but ineffectual attempts to escape.
CHAPTER 3
The Valley of the Chyne
Rose and Mark behaved in the classic manner of surprised lovers. They released each other, Rose turned white and Mark red, and neither of them uttered a word.
The Colonel said: I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me,’ and made his daughter a little bow.
Rose, with a sort of agitated spontaneity, ran to him, linked her hands behind his head, and cried: ‘It had to happen some time, darling, didn’t it?’
Mark said: ‘Sir, I want her to marry me.’
‘But I won’t,’ Rose said. ‘I won’t unless you can be happy about it. I’ve told him.’
The Colonel, with great gentleness, freed himself and then put an arm round his daughter.
‘Where have you come from, Mark?’ he asked.
‘From Chyning. It’s my day at the hospital.’
‘Yes, I see.’ The Colonel looked from his daughter to her lover and thought how ardent and vulnerable they seemed. ‘Sit down, both of you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to think what I’m going to say to you. Sit down.’
They obeyed him with an air of bewilderment.
‘When you go back to Nunspardon, Mark,’ he said, ‘you will find your father very much upset. That is because of a talk I’ve just had with him. I’m at liberty to repeat the substance of that talk to you, but I feel some hesitation in doing so. I think he should be allowed to break it to you himself.’
‘Break it to me?’
‘It is not good news. You will find him entirely opposed to any thought of your marriage with Rose.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Mark said.
‘You will, however. You may even find that you yourself (forgive me, Rose, my love, but it may be so), feel quite differently about’ – the Colonel smiled faintly –’about contracting an alliance with a Cartarette.’
‘But, my poorest Daddy,’ Rose ejaculated, clinging to a note of irony. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘The very devil and all, I’m afraid, my poppet,’ her father rejoined.
‘Well, whatever it may be,’ Mark said, and stood up, ‘I can assure you that blue murder wouldn’t make me change my mind about Rose.’
‘Oh,’ the Colonel rejoined mildly, ‘this is not blue murder.’
‘Good.’ Mark turned to Rose. ‘Don’t be fussed, darling,’ he said. ‘I’ll go home and sort it out.’
‘By all means go home,’ the Colonel agreed, ‘and try.’
He took Mark by the arm and led him to the door.
‘You won’t feel very friendly towards me tomorrow, Mark,’ he said. ‘Will you try to believe that the action I’ve been compelled to take is one that I detest taking?’
‘Compelled?’ Mark repeated. ‘Yes – well … yes, of course.’ He stuck out the Lacklander jaw and knitted the Lacklander brows. ‘Look here, sir,’ he said, ‘if my father welcomes our engagement – and I can’t conceive of his doing anything else – will you have any objection? I’d better tell you now that no objection on either side will make the smallest difference.’
‘In that case,’ the Colonel said, ‘your question is academic. And now I’ll leave you to have a word with Rose before you go home.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Mark.’
When the Colonel had gone, Mark turned to Rose and took her hands in his. ‘But how ridiculous,’ he said. ‘How in the wide world could these old boys cook up anything that would upset us?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know how they could but it’s serious. He’s terribly worried, poor darling.’
‘Well,’ Mark said, ‘it’s no good attempting a diagnosis before we’ve heard the history. I’ll go home, see what’s happened and ring you up in about fifteen minutes. The all-important, utterly bewildering and heaven-sent joy is that you love me, Rose. Nothing,’ Mark continued with an air of coining a brand-new phrase, ‘nothing can alter that. Au revoir, darling.’
He kissed Rose in a business-like manner and was gone.
She sat still for a time hugging to herself the knowledge of their feeling for each other. What had happened to all her scruples about leaving her father? She didn’t even feel properly upset by her father’s extraordinary
behaviour and when she realized this circumstance she realized the extent of her enthralment. She stood in the french window of the drawing-room and looked across the valley to Nunspardon. It was impossible to be anxious … her whole being ached with happiness. It was now and for the first time, that Rose understood the completeness of love.
Time went by without her taking thought for it. The gong sounded for dinner and at the same moment the telephone rang. She flew to it.
‘Rose,’ Mark said. ‘Say at once that you love me. At once.’
‘I love you.’
‘And on your most sacred word of honour that you’ll marry me. Say it, Rose. Promise it. Solemnly promise.’
‘I solemnly promise.’
‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll come back at nine.’
‘Do you know what’s wrong?’
‘Yes. It’s damn’ ticklish. Bless you, darling. Till nine.’
‘Till nine,’ Rose said, and in a state of enthralment went in to dinner.
II
By eight o’clock the evening depression had begun to settle over Commander Syce. At about five o’clock when the sun was over the yard arm he had a brandy and soda. This raised his spirits. With its successors, up to the third or fourth, they rose still farther. During this period he saw himself taking a job and making a howling success of it. From that emotional eminence he fell away with each succeeding dram and it was during his decline that he usually took to archery. It had been in such a state of almost suicidal depression that he had suddenly shot an arrow over his coppice into Mr Danberry-Phinn’s bottom meadow and slain the mother of Thomasina Twitchett.
Tonight the onset of depression was more than usually severe. Perhaps his encounter with the Colonel, whom he liked, gave point to his own loneliness. Moreover, his married couple were on their annual holiday and he had not been bothered to do anything about an evening meal. He found his arrow and limped back to the archery lawn. He no longer wanted to shoot. His gammy leg ached but he thought he’d take a turn up the drive.
