A Trial Marriage

by Anne Mather

  Rachel left the. Priory at ten o’clock the next morning and arrived back at the apartment soon after one. It was a relief to walk through the empty rooms, re-acquainting herself with her surroundings, knowing she had only herself to please.

  Mrs Madigan soon rustled up some lunch for her, and afterwards Rachel rang the Courtenays to let them know she had arrived home safely. Dora answered the call, however, as Mrs Courtenay was visiting the vicarage and Mr Courtenay as usual was down at the stables.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she assured the housekeeper, when she offered to call Jake’s father. ‘It’s not important. Tell them I’ll ring later.’

  It was late afternoon when the telephone started ringing, and Rachel hastily put down the book she was reading and went to answer it. She was sure it must be Jake, but when she picked up the receiver, a strange if not entirely unfamiliar voice asked to speak to her.

  ‘This is Rachel Courtenay speaking,’ she said, frowning. ‘Who’s that? Carl? Carl, is that really you?’

  A sound from the doorway made her look up and seeing Mrs Madigan she shook her head quickly, putting her hand over the receiver. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I can handle it,’ and the housekeeper went quietly away.

  ‘Rachel?’ Carl’s voice sounded urgent, and she removed her hand and said: ‘What is it, Carl? Why are you ringing? Are you in London?’

  ‘No,’ Carl was abrupt: ‘I’m at the hotel. I’m ringing you because I’m afraid I have some—bad news.’

  ‘Bad news!’ Immediately Rachel’s fears were for Jake. ‘Wh-what bad news?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Faulkner-Stewart,’ replied Carl quietly. ‘I’m afraid she had a heart attack and died on Saturday.’

  ‘What?’ Rachel was shocked and horrified. ‘But she wasn’t old!’

  ‘Forty-five, to be precise,’ said Carl heavily. ‘It was a shock for us, believe me. She was playing cards with the others as usual, when she complained of feeling sick.’ He paused. ‘It was all over in a few minutes.’

  ‘But what did the doctors say it was?’ Rachel could hardly take it in.

  ‘Coronary thrombosis.’ Carl sighed. ‘She was very unfit, as you know, and—well, who knows why these things happen?’

  Rachel shook her head disbelievingly. ‘So when is the funeral?’

  ‘Tomorrow. That’s what I was ringing you about. I tried to reach you on Saturday, but your housekeeper told me you were away for the weekend.’

  ‘If only you’d asked where!’ exclaimed Rachel, wondering with hindsight whether her desire to visit the hotel had in some way been connected with Della’s illness. Now it was too late—but she would attend the funeral. ‘I was spending the weekend with the Courtenays at Hardy Lonsdale.’

  Carl made an exclamation of regret. ‘If only I’d known! I suppose it’s too far for you——’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Rachel was adamant. ‘I’ll come down. If I leave right away, I should be there before supper.’

  ‘Now wait a minute …’ Carl was less enthusiastic. ‘It’s freezing hard down here tonight, and after the thaw of the last few days, the roads are pretty slippery.’

  ‘I’ll drive carefully,’ said Rachel at once. ‘And at least the roads aren’t busy at this time of year.’ She sighed. ‘Thanks for ringing, Carl. I’m glad you told me. It’s only right that Della should have someone—of her own at the funeral.’

  Mrs Madigan looked dismayed when Rachel said she was driving south again. ‘But it’s five o’clock, Mrs Courtenay!’ she exclaimed. ‘You can’t drive down to Devon tonight.’

  ‘I have to,’ said Rachel simply, deciding not to go into unnecessary details about her reasons for going. It was nothing to do with the housekeeper after all, and she would be home again tomorrow evening after the funeral was over.

  She filled up the petrol tank at the nearest garage, and joined the M3 going west. She picked up the A30 before reaching Salisbury, and drove on feeling the first real twinges of weariness when she saw how far it still was to Bath and Glastonbury. Her eyes were pricking painfully by the time she reached the next village, and finding it to be Melford she realised with a sense of dismay that she had inadvertently got on to the Warminster road. It meant a detour of some twenty and more miles to get back on to the right road again, unless she turned round now and went back the way she had come.

  Turning round seemed the lesser of two evils, but she had to go beyond the village to find a suitable spot. Then, in the darkness, she misjudged the turn, and found her back wheels spinning helplessly over the edge of a ditch.

  It was the last straw, and she got out of the car half tearfully, staring at the car’s predicament in angry frustration. The removal of her weight from the car, however, was sufficient to set it rolling backwards, and there was an ominous crack as it lurched into the muddy water of the ditch.

  ‘Oh, damn, damn!’ she muttered miserably to herself. Now what was she going to do?

  At least the village wasn’t far away, she consoled herself grimly, tugging her overnight case from the back of the car, and locking it securely. Not that anyone could drive it away, she decided, but they might dismantle the radio, or even the engine if they were desperate.

  Trudging back along the road towards the village, she had to contend with one or two casually-flung invitations from drivers passing her by, but fortunately no one seriously accosted her, and she reached the only pub Melford boasted some fifteen minutes later.

  The landlord was sympathetic when she told her tale. ‘We don’t usually accommodate any overnight visitors here,’ he told her frankly, ‘but I’ve no doubt my missus’ll find you a bed for all that.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ Rachel felt embarrassed by the interested stares of the bar-patrons who could hear everything they were saying. ‘Perhaps in the morning someone could go and tow in my car, and if it’s damaged in some way, I wonder if there’s a hire car or a taxi I could use to get to Torquay.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Tommy Hastings,’ promised the landlord, calling for his wife, and Rachel asked if there was a phone she could use. ‘Just that one there,’ he replied, indicating a pay-phone hanging on the wall, within sight and sound of his customers, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rachel shook her head.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said quickly. ‘It wasn’t important.’

  It was good to get to bed that night, even if the mattress was lumpy, and the sheets smelled of mothballs. She had driven more than three hundred miles that day and she was exhausted. She lay for a while worrying about Jake calling her, either at the apartment or at the hotel, and then oblivion claimed her.

  Annoyingly, she slept late in the morning, perhaps due to the unsettled nights she had been spending lately, and it was after nine when she came down the rough wooden staircase. The hall which led through to the bar was deserted, but a girl of perhaps sixteen was cleaning out the fireplace in what appeared to be the parlour, and Rachel addressed her from the doorway: ‘Will it be all right if I use the phone?’

  The girl looked up and then got to her feet. ‘You’d be Mrs Courtenay, I suppose,’ she said, her plump cheeks radiating a smiling good humour. ‘Mum said you were staying the night. Do you want some breakfast? Mum said to get you anything you wanted.’

  Rachel smiled in return. ‘That’s very kind, and I would like some coffee—or tea, if possible. But right now, I’d like to make a call.’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’ The girl nodded towards the bar. ‘There’s no one in there right now. Dad’s gone into the village to see about your car, and Mum’s out back feeding the hens.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rachel paused. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Beth, miss. Elizabeth really. Elizabeth Jopling.’

  Rachel nodded. ‘Well, I’ll make that call now …’

  Getting through to the hotel took longer than she expected, mainly because she had to search her pockets and handbag for sufficient change to put into the phone box. But eventually the receptionist answered and she asked
to speak to Carl.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here,’ the receptionist replied politely, and Rachel stifled an exclamation before saying: ‘He must be!’ ‘No, madam,’ the receptionist continued smoothly. ‘I’m afraid he’s attending a funeral this morning, and won’t be back before lunch. Who shall I say has called?’

  Rachel slumped against the wall. The funeral was this morning, and he had left already! She was never going to make it in time!

  ‘Hello?’ The receptionist sounded impatient. ‘Hello, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ responded Rachel heavily. ‘As a matter of fact. I was coming to the funeral myself, but my car’s broken down.’

  ‘I see.’ The girl sounded a little more understanding now. ‘Well, I’m afraid the service is at ten o’clock, so unless you can get here within the next quarter of an hour …’

  ‘No. No, I can’t.’ Rachel hunched her shoulders. ‘Thank you anyway.’

  She rang off, replacing the receiver with resigned care. Well, that was that! She had driven all this way for nothing! No doubt Carl thought she had changed her mind about coming, and who could blame him? But what was the point of going on now? Della was dead—and would be buried before she could get there. It had all been an awful fiasco!

  Beth appeared as she walked dejectedly back along the passage, and gazed concernedly at her. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘I should have been in Torquay this morning, to attend a funeral, and now it’s too late to get there in time.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Beth sympathised with her. ‘Still,’ she added brightly, ‘the person whose funeral it was won’t be hurt by your absence.’

  ‘No.’ Rachel forced a faint smile. ‘No, you’re right there.’

  When Mr Jopling came back, Rachel was drinking tea with his wife in the comfortable kitchen of the inn, and trying to respond to Beth’s attempts to cheer her.

  ‘We got your car towed in,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘Half shaft’s snapped, but Tommy’s already rung the main dealers in Salisbury, and they’ve got a replacement. He’ll go in and get it this morning, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘How long will it take to fix?’

  ‘How long?’ Mr Jopling frowned. ‘Well, Tommy reckons it’s at least a four-hour job. Taking into account his travelling time, and the other work he has in hand, I should think he’ll have it fixed by tomorrow lunchtime.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ Rachel’s spirits drooped. ‘I see.’

  ‘Can’t be done sooner, I’m afraid,’ Mr Jopling assured her, and she agreed that he had done everything he could.

  ‘I suppose I could go into Salisbury today and come back for the car tomorrow,’ she mused, and Mr Jopling nodded.

  ‘Of course, you could stay on here if you wanted,’ he suggested. ‘I mean, I know it’s nothing special, but you’re welcome to stay if you want to.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you, but——’

  ‘I know. You’d rather find an hotel.’

  ‘Not really.’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t want to put you or your wife to any more inconvenience.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Mrs Jopling assured her at once. The sheets are on the bed now, and one night more or less won’t make any difference. Since Beth’s two brothers left home, there’s only the three of us, and we’ve plenty of room.’

  Rachel didn’t see how she could refuse. Besides, she had decided there was no point in going on to Torquay, and it seemed more sensible to stay here until the car was ready than have to return or send Madigan back to pick it up later. But she must get home tomorrow. Jake might be back tomorrow night.

  She shivered in anticipation. She would ring Mrs Madigan today and explain the situation so that if Jake rang tonight he would not worry about her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RACHEL tried to ring Mrs Madigan several times that day, but the line was always engaged, and she wondered rather impatiently who the woman could be phoning. She eventually got through in the early evening, and when a man’s voice answered, she didn’t immediately recognise who it was. The voice was deep, and faintly slurred, and she speculated that perhaps Madigan had taken advantage of his employer’s absence to go on a drinking spree.

  ‘Mr Madigan?’ she asked. ‘Madigan, is that you?’

  ‘Rachel!’

  The harsh interjection made her nerve-ends tingle, and aware of the handful of interested spectators around her in the bar, she said uncertainly: ‘Jake! What are you doing home?’

  ‘Who the hell were you expecting?’ The callousness of his tone made her quiver, and she had to steel herself not to show the shocked disbelief that was gripping her. ‘Where in God’s name are you? And what do you mean by disappearing without leaving any word of your whereabouts?’

  ‘But I did …’ she began, then glancing round apprehensively: ‘Jake, I can’t talk now.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ There was that curious slur in his tone again. ‘Where are you? Who are you with? Yates?’

  ‘No!’ Rachel was horrified, aware that his voice must be audible over the unnaturally hushed silence of the bar. ‘Jake, please! Listen to me!’

  ‘No! You listen to me! Either you tell me where you are right now, or you can forget I ever asked, do you understand me?’

  Rachel trembled violently. This couldn’t really be Jake speaking to her, not like this. Why hadn’t he told her he was coming home earlier than he had planned? Why was he behaving as if she had walked out on him? Surely when Mrs Madigan told him she had driven down to Devon, he must have rung the hotel and found out from Carl why she had gone. He was unreasonable! Just because she had not turned up at the Tor Court there was no reason to behave as if she had committed some unforgivable crime. Della was dead! Didn’t that mean anything to him? He hadn’t liked the woman, she knew, but he must realise that she felt a kind of obligation towards her.

  Now she said unsteadily: ‘I really don’t understand why you’re behaving like this. I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t know you were coming home today——’

  ‘Last night, actually,’ he put in coldly, but she ignored it.

  ‘—and in any case,’ she added, ‘I had to come. Carl asked me——’

  ‘He means that much to you?’

  Frustration, and the sense of anti-climax she was feeling at having Jake speak to her like this when she had been just longing to be with him again, brought tears of anger to her eyes. ‘Oh, Jake, don’t be so silly!’ she declared, and then the pips sounded, signifying the end of her three minutes. The operator came on the line at once, asking her to put some more coins in the box if she wanted to continue, but Rachel didn’t. With a feeling of despair, she replaced the receiver, and then ran swiftly out of the bar before anyone could attempt to sympathise with her.

  Her car was ready by eleven o’clock the next morning, and after paying the Joplings more than they asked, she left, eager to get back to London and find out what was going on. It had sleeted a little in the night, and the roads were inclined to be treacherous, so she drove more slowly than usual, chafing at the time she was wasting.

  She didn’t stop for lunch, and arrived back at the apartment soon after two, to be greeted by an anxious Mrs Madigan.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Courtenay!’ she exclaimed with relief. ‘There you are! We’ve all been at sixes and sevens since you left.’

  Rachel carried her case into the living room and set it down, looking about her apprehensively. ‘Where’s my husband?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Madigan rung her hands helplessly, looking totally unlike her normally contained self. ‘He went out without having any breakfast, and I haven’t seen him since.’

  Rachel’s legs felt like jelly. ‘But I was speaking to him on the phone last night,’ she protested. ‘He—he didn’t say anything to me about going anywhere. Is—is he at the office?’

  ‘No, madam. I rang there. There was a call for him earlier on, yo
u see, and—and the caller wanted to get in touch with him quite urgently. I told—this person that Mr Courtenay wasn’t here, and—and they said they’d already rung his office without success. I rang through myself because I thought—well, it was possible that Mr Courtenay might be refusing all calls, but his secretary said he definitely wasn’t there.’

  Rachel sought a chair and sat down abruptly. ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Mrs Madigan was obviously worried. ‘He—well, he wasn’t himself last night. He hasn’t been himself since he got back and found you weren’t here.’

  ‘But you told him where I was, didn’t you?’ exclaimed Rachel.

  ‘Yes. I told him you’d driven down to the hotel, in Torquay. And he rang there. But they said you weren’t there.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ cried Rachel helplessly. ‘My car broke down.’

  ‘Well, I believe Mr Courtenay asked for a—Mr Yates, is that right? He wasn’t there either, and I’m afraid——’ She broke off. ‘It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Of course it’s your business!’ declared Rachel, her heart plummeting at the realisation that Jake hadn’t spoken to Carl after all. ‘Go on. You believe Jake thought we were together.’

  ‘Well—yes.’ Mrs Madigan flushed. ‘I’m afraid it’s all my fault.’

  ‘Why?’ Rachel stared at her.

  ‘It was that call you had that sent you down to Devon, wasn’t it?’ Rachel nodded, and the housekeeper went on: ‘I guessed it was. It was me who told Mr Courtenay that you’d been speaking to someone called—Carl, is that right?’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Rachel buried her face in her hands. Slowly she was beginning to understand. She raised her head reluctantly. ‘What did he do then?’

  ‘He—he phoned his parents, I think. He told me he’d asked them if you’d said you were going on to Torquay, and his mother had assured him that you’d decided against it.’

  ‘That’s true. I had.’ Rachel tugged painful fingers through her hair without even noticing it. ‘But that was before——’ She made a distraught gesture. ‘Before—before I married Jake, I worked for my godmother, a Mrs Faulkner-Stewart. She was staying at the hotel in Torquay. She was spending the winter there. Carl—Carl Yates, that is, he’s the manager. He rang to tell me that she had a heart attack and died on Saturday. The funeral was yesterday. I—I missed it because I had an accident with the car.’