Miss Silver’s needles clicked.
“It is always a very unpleasant proceeding,” she observed. “In fact, my dear Randal, there are times when I consider the freedom of the Press a somewhat over-rated blessing. But I am interrupting you. I feel sure you were going to continue your narrative. Pray do so.”
He eyed her with the suspicion of a twinkle.
“If there is really anything that I can tell you. Well, this is what happened. Rafe Jerningham rang up at seven o’clock this morning and asked me to go out there. He looked like death, poor chap, and he told me the whole thing. He found that poor girl out beyond the Shepstone Rocks in a regular trap of a pool. Her husband had pushed her into it and left her there for the tide to finish. I’ve seen the place, and how on earth Rafe got her out of it and back amongst those rocks in the dark beats me.”
“A providential escape indeed,” said Miss Silver earnestly.
“He got her home, and rang up the aerodrome. As soon as Dale Jerningham heard that his wife was alive he would know that the game was up. Pell was the rock he struck on—they might have held their tongues if it hadn’t been for him. But even Dale Jerningham must have seen that he couldn’t very well expect them to stand aside and let Pell hang, so he took that dive into the sea.”
“Did you see Mrs Jerningham?”
“Yes, I saw her. She made a statement, quite clear and simple. He pushed her in. He’s besotted about the place, and her money was tied up so that she couldn’t get it. But she had a power of appointment under her father’s will, and she had exercised it in his favour. Rafe got twenty thousand, and Dale got the rest. I gather that the rest is a thumping big sum—enough to have kept Tanfield in the family for another generation or two anyhow. Poor girl—I was desperately sorry for her. She didn’t attempt to keep anything back. I expect you’ve noticed that people don’t when they have had a really bad shock. It all came out in a gentle, tired voice—no emotion or anything like that. After he had pushed her into the pool he stood there and told her why he’d done it. He complained about her luck—the drowning episode, and the car smash. You were quite right about those. He boasted about how clever he had been. And he admitted to the murder of Cissie Cole, but I don’t think he boasted about that. I think that hit him pretty hard. Curious, isn’t it—he could kill his wife without a qualm, but I think he was squeamish over having killed Cissie Cole by mistake. The Coles were part of Tanfield, and Tanfield was sacrosanct. I believe he really hated that poor girl his wife because she had given Cissie Cole her coat and let him in for killing her.”
Miss Silver nodded.
“I should think that extremely likely. A most shocking story, but of great interest. Did you get a statement from Lady Steyne? It seems to me that she has something to explain. She testified that she and Mr Jerningham were together during the time they were up on Tane Head, did she not?”
“Well, she didn’t quite say that. She hedged a little. When I took her original statement I wondered why she was at so much pains to suggest that she and Dale Jerningham were having an affair. It seemed just a little —unnecessary. I remember that when I asked whether they had been together the whole time she laughed in a conscious sort of way and said she wouldn’t swear that she had never taken her eyes off him, but—well, what did I suppose they had gone up there for—or words to that effect.”
Miss Silver gave a little cough.
“And what does she say now?”
“No more than she can help. It has hit her hard. She says they were together up there, but she missed a diamond and emerald clip she was wearing and they were trying to find it. I ran into her on Tane Head yesterday morning with Rafe Jerningham, and she told us then she had dropped this clip and was looking for it. To go back to Wednesday night—she says they hunted for it for a long time, but the light was bad and they didn’t find it From time to time they were out of sight of one another. It’s quite plausible, you know—in fact it’s quite likely to be the truth—a little stretched perhaps, but near enough. Dale Jerningham would hardly have pushed that girl over the cliff in the presence of a third person unless she was an accomplice. But an accomplice would mean premeditation, and the whole circumstances at this point make premeditation impossible. No—he must have come on the Cole girl unexpectedly. He would see the tall figure, the fair hair, his wife’s coat, and he must have acted at once under the first shock of an unforeseen opportunity. With time to think, the improbability of Mrs Jerningham being there must have struck him, and the recollection of Pell rushing from the scene would have suggested his mistake. But I don’t believe he had time to think. He had the will to kill his wife. He thought he had the opportunity, and he took it. It was probably all over in a moment. He need not have been out of Lady Steyne’s sight for any longer than she says. What she may have thought or guessed about it all afterwards is another matter.”
“A very shocking story,” said Miss Silver.
49
DALE JERNINGHAM’S BODY came ashore on the ridge below the Shepstone Rocks. An inquest was held, and a verdict of death resulting from a flying accident was duly returned. Mrs Jerningham was not present. She was said to be prostrated with grief. When she had recovered she went away to stay with friends in Devonshire. Devonshire is a long way off.
Mr Tatham renewed his offer for Tanfield Court and the estate which went with it. Rafe Jerningham, who succeeded to the property, accepted the offer. Completion of the purchase would naturally have to be deferred until probate had been granted.
Miss Maud Silver returned to London, where her whole attention became immediately concentrated upon the case of Mr Waley and the Russian ikon— Waley was of course not his real name. The storm-clouds began to pile up higher and higher on the European horizon. July slipped into August, and August slipped into war. The deaths of Cissie Cole and Dale Jerningham were left behind upon the farther side of world-shaking events. Nobody thought about them any more.
On a day when winter had begun to turn towards the spring Rafe Jerningham came into a room in a London flat. He was there to see Lisle, whom he had not seen since she left Tanfield. As has already been remarked, Devonshire is a long way off. And Lisle was a long way off, removed from him by tragedy, by kinship, by all the things which at once emphasise distance and obliterate it. He had written to her, and she had written to him. He knew what drives she had taken, when she first began to walk abroad again, how kind the Pearses were to her, and how there were violets in bloom against the south wall on New Year’s day. Such things do not stay the hunger of a man’s heart, and presently even these would be gone, because Lisle herself would be gone. It was natural and inevitable that she should go back to America. Once there, she would stay. She would marry again. Her letters would drop off, dwindling to a few lines at Christmas, and presently not even that—a card perhaps, with her new signature slanting across it.
The door opened and she came in.
She was in grey with a little bunch of violets—not the kind you buy. She must have brought them up from Devonshire. They were small, and dark, and very sweet. There was one white one. He looked at the violets because for the moment it wasn’t easy to look at Lisle.
They touched hands. The only other time they had ever shaken hands was when Dale first brought her to Tanfield. It seemed strange and formal to be doing it now—so strange that he hadn’t a word to say. He was out of his own key, and not sure of hers.
She thought, “Why does he look like that? Oh, Rafe, are you ill? Or do you really hate me? Oh, Rafe, why?”
But this was in her heart. Her lips began to speak at once, saying obediently all the things which people say when they have not met for a long time —“How are you?” and, “What have you been doing?” and, “Isn’t it kind of Margaret Cassels to lend me this charming flat? The Pearses have been angels, but I am quite well now, and Mr Robson wants to see me.”
“So do I,” said Rafe. He looked at her then. “Are you well?”
“Don’t I look well? The Pe
arses thought I did them great credit.”
He went on looking. The strained patience was gone from her eyes, but it had left a shadow there. She was not so thin as she had been. There was colour in her cheeks, but it came and went in a breath. She had done her hair a new way. It shone like very pale gold, like winter sunshine. He said,
“The sale has gone through. Tanfield’s gone to Tatham.”
Lisle looked away. She caught her breath and said softly,
“Do you mind?”
“Mind? I’m thankful!” He pushed back his chair and got up. “I thought he’d cry off when the war came, but not a bit of it—the moment the probate was through, there he was, just itching to sign a cheque and move in.”
There was a pause. He walked to the window and stood there with his back to her. A wet pavement, a row of houses opposite, a pale blue sky. He said abruptly,
“I’ve kept the Manor.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Lisle in a pleased voice.
Still with his back to her, she heard him say,
“You liked it.”
“I loved it. There was something friendly about it, as if nice people had lived there and been fond of each other.”
“My father and mother lived there. They were—very fond of each other.”
There was another pause.
Extraordinary for Rafe to have no words.
He turned a little, and said simply,
“You know they’ve given me a job?”
“Yes. Is it interesting?”
“Oh, very. I could live at the Manor, but—I don’t suppose I shall.”
Lisle said, “Oh—”
None of this seemed to be getting them anywhere.
Rafe picked up the cord of the blind and began to twist it about his wrist.
“I don’t suppose you would ever want to see the place again.”
Lisle said, “Why?”
“I should think you would hate the sight of anything or anyone who reminded you of Tanfield.”
“Why should I?”
She saw his eyebrows lift with that queer crooked tilt. An odd smile just touched his lips and was gone again.
“Plenty of reasons, my dear.”
It was the old light voice for a moment. Then it quivered and broke. He untwisted the cord about his wrist and threw it back against the window. The ivory acorn rattled on the glass.
“Oh, Lisle—I love you so much!”
She felt the kind of surprise which stops thought. Thrown back on something simpler, she could only say,
“Do you?”
“Didn’t you know?”
She shook her head.
“You said you hated me.”
Rafe laughed. It was a queer jerky sound.
“I had to try and get you to go away. You weren’t safe. Did you really think I hated you?”
She put her hand to her cheek—the old gesture which had always caught at his heart. It said, “I’m defenceless—I don’t know what to do.”
He came over to her, pulled a chair up close to hers, and sat down on the arm.
“Let’s talk about it. I want to. I’ve been wanting to ever since—but—I can’t get the right words.”
She was looking up at him, her grey eyes dark, her colour now there, now gone.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve used them all up. I’ve made love to dozens of girls, but it’s all been a game—very pleasant at the time and no feelings hurt when it was over—love all and vantage all. But none of that’s any use now. It didn’t mean a thing—it was just a game. Now it’s—well, for the last twelve months it’s been hell.”
Her hand fell into her lap. She didn’t speak.
“Naturally you must hate the very sight of anyone connected with Tanfield. I said that to you just now, and you said ‘Why?’ I’ve been saying that to myself ever since July, and I’ve never got any further than ‘Why not?’ But I have got to the point where I want to know how we stand, and whether there’s ever going to be any hope for me. And before you say anything I want you to listen to me, and I want you to tell me the truth—the real truth. And you needn’t bother about wrapping it up—it won’t be any good.”
Lisle caught her lip between her teeth. Something in her was quivering. Her lip quivered too. She tried to hold it steady.
Rafe leaned forward. He put a hand on the arm of her chair.
“How do you feel when you’re with me?”
She was silent.
“You must know. You needn’t mind about hurting my feelings. We used to go about together a lot. What did you feel then?”
She said, “Safe,” and saw the colour run up into his face, darkening and changing it. Some of that haggard look was gone when the flush died down.
He said, “It that true?” and she gave a grave little nod.
“Yes—quite true. I don’t tell lies. I always felt safe when you were there. Even when I was in the pool I felt safe—after you came.”
He drew back with a jerk.
“A kind of super policeman! By the way, I’ve made great friends with March. He’s a good chap.”
What had she said? Why had he suddenly drawn away like that just when the strangeness was melting away between them? Was it what she had said about the pool? She didn’t know. All she I knew was that she couldn’t bear it if he went away and became a polite stranger again—Rafe, who had always been so lightly and cheerfully free with his tongue. Her colour rose. She looked at him in distress.
“Do you mind if we talk about it? I think we must—just this once. Because if we don’t, it will always be there—between us.”
The odd crooked smile again, changing to a sudden gravity.
“Go on then. What do you want to talk about?”
“Dale.”
The new bright colour went out as suddenly as a candle in the wind. It was as if a cold, dark wind out of the past had rushed between them.
He said, “Very well.”
She kept her eyes on his face.
“Did he ever love me—at all? It makes a difference, you see. I want to know the truth. Sometimes I think he did—at first. And then he got angry —about the money—and about Tanfield. I oughtn’t to have let him know I hated Tanfield. That was one of the things that made him want to kill me —he said so down at the pool. I keep on going over and over it in my own mind. That is why I want to know the truth. Do you think he did love me at all?”
Rafe didn’t look at her. He said in a strained voice,
“Dale didn’t love people. Sometimes he wanted them. He wanted Alicia. I don’t know what would have happened if he had married her. He wanted Lydia because of her money. He wanted you—not altogether because of the money, though he wouldn’t have married you if you hadn’t had it. That’s the truth, Lisle.”
There was a silence that went on, and on, and on. He looked at her at last and broke it.
“Does it hurt so much?”
She said, “Not now.” And then, “It feels as if it was all very far away and a long time ago—a little as if I really had died that night and all those things had happened in another life—as if I’d left them a long way behind — ” Her voice faltered and stopped.
He leaned forward again.
“Am I one of the things you have left behind?”
She said, “I don’t know—that’s for you—”
All at once he was on his feet with her hands in his, pulling her up to face him.
“Why are we talking like this? I’ve told you I love you! It’s been hell, but it might be heaven. I don’t want to keep you safe—I’m not asking for a resident policeman’s job. I want you to love me—I want you to marry me. I want you to come and live at the Manor with me. I don’t want to talk about the past or think about the past any more. I want to know whether you love me. Do you? Do you?”
Her voice trembled into laughter. It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
“I wondered when you were going to ask me that.”
CHAPTER 1
LAURA FANE CAME UP to London in the third week in January. A little earlier or a little later, and things might have happened differently for her, and for Tanis Lyle, and for Carey Desborough, and for some other people too. It had to be that time because of her twenty-first birthday and having to see Mr. Metcalfe, who was the family lawyer and her trustee. She stayed with one of her Ferrers relations, old Miss Sophy Ferrers, who was an invalid and never went out. Miss Ferrers gave this as her reason for refusing to leave London for some less raided part of the country, intimating with gentle firmness that since she no longer felt able to leave her house for the pleasure of visiting her friends, she would certainly not do so to please Hitler. She had had a broken window or two when the house at the corner received a direct hit, and she had taken the precaution of tying up a heavy cut-glass chandelier in a muslin bag, but farther than this she declined to go.
She welcomed Laura with great kindness, and insisted that she should make the most of her holiday.
“The Douglas Maxwells have asked you for tonight. Robin and Alistair are on leave. I hope you have brought a pretty frock, my dear. Robin is calling for you at a quarter to eight.”
The Maxwells were connections—Helen and Douglas, a nice friendly couple in the middle thirties, Douglas at the War Office, Ian and Alistair both in the Air Force and unmarried. Laura had met them once or twice. She felt warm and pleased. It was a delightful beginning to her visit.
She put on a black dress, and hoped it would pass muster. Black suited her white skin, dark hair, and the grey-green eyes which were her real beauty. They were changeable and sensitive as water, taking colour from what she wore. They took the light as water takes it, and they took the shadows too. Long dark lashes set them off. They were long enough and black enough to make a shadow of their own. For the rest she had fine, even skin, smooth and rather pale, and a charming mouth, wide and generous, with enough natural colour to have stood alone without the help of lipstick. The severely plain black frock showed a slim, rounded figure. It made her look taller than she really was, and it made her look very young—too young.
In the Balance Page 24
