“Most certainly I shall, Miss Reubens.”
When she had swaggered out Mr. Temperley took a stroll in the garden, and asked himself just how serious she was, and what lay behind her sudden passion to possess the tower. A tumultuous and devastating person, Miss Reubens. Had she called on him in order to try and find out when Luce might be expected back? And if she was serious about this tenancy? Mr. Temperley walked up and down the lawn until the dinner-bell rang. He was quite sure that he did not want to let the Signal Tower to Miss Reubens. She might prove a tempestuous tenant in more ways than one. Moreover, what if the tower might still contain, in spite of Luce’s precautions, trivial but damning secrets that the eyes of a woman like Miss Reubens might discover? No, Mr. Temperley was being impelled by compassion and prejudice towards other beneficent wickednesses in his attitude towards this rather embarrassing architectural relic.
He had dined, and was preparing to sit down at the french window of the library with a book and a pipe when he heard the ringing of the front-door bell. Had that lady of letters returned? Mr. Temperley sat listening, and nursing an unlit pipe. He heard a man’s voice. Luce’s? No, it was not the voice of John Luce, but more hearty and pragmatical.
Martha came to the library door.
“Inspector Ford, sir, wishing to see you.”
“Show him in, Martha.”
Mr. Temperley was far more capable of coping with Inspector Ford than he had been with Miss Reubens. The inspector was equally substantial and actual, but more essentially good-natured, if a little slow and simple in his Saxon reactions. Moreover, to the policeman Mr. Temperley was a profoundly social person, and not a little old red-faced Punchinello.
“Come in, Inspector. Martha, bring in the whisky and a syphon.”
The big man was in mufti, and looking self-conscious and a little heated.
“Sorry to trouble you, sir.”
“Sit down, Inspector. Other people’s troubles are my business. Have a cigar?”
Mr. Temperley went to a bureau and took a box of Coronas from a drawer.
“Try one of these.”
“It’s very good of you, sir.”
“They were made to be smoked.”
Ford put his hat on the floor, and his large fingers fumbled in the cigar-box.
“I have come to ask you a favour, sir, and I seem to be getting all the favours.”
“Where’s the grievance, Inspector?”
“Not here, sir.”
Mr. Temperley lit his pipe and passed Ford the match-box.
“Well, what is the trouble?”
The big man’s blue eyes seemed to come out on stalks.
“That damned woman, sir. Excuse me.”
“Not poor Mrs. Ballard?”
“O, not her, sir. I’m thinking she had all the trouble in that house, poor thing. It’s the sister. She’s a——.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Temperley, sitting down; “I think I understand.”
“That female’s been worrying my life out. Spiteful as sin. I tell you, sir, I’m fed up with her. She won’t believe that the poor creature is in the river.”
“Suspicious?”
“She’s like a dog digging for a lost bone. Excuse me, sir, I oughtn’t to be talking like this, but you’re a gentleman.”
“I hope so, Inspector. Say what you like.”
Martha appeared with the whisky, and Mr. Temperley, having helped his visitor to a good one, sat down again and waited for the crisis to develop.
“Well, what is Miss Ballard’s particular obsession?”
“It’s the old Signal Tower, sir.”
“The tower? But, really, Inspector!”
“I know, sir. She says it is the only place that has not been searched.”
“But, my dear man, does she expect you to find a concealed corpse or something in my friend Mr. Luce’s cellar?”
“I know it is ridiculous, sir, but she seems to have got a bee in her bonnet about the tower. Just cussedness, I should call it.”
“Mr. Luce is still away.”
“I know, sir, but if you could let me look over the place.”
“Just to satisfy the lady?”
“Quite so, sir.”
Mir. Temperley looked amused.
“I have a spare key. I’ll take you over myself. I think that is due to Mr. Luce. A man’s private affairs are his own, Inspector. It’s neither my business nor yours if a gentleman has visitors, or a particular visitor. Do you take me?”
“Quite, sir.”
“A particular lady who is a friend of Mr. Luce’s, happens to be staying at the Chequers. As a man of the world, Inspector, you’ll treat this as confidential.”
“Of course, sir.”
“What about three o’clock to-morrow afternoon?”
“It’s very good of you, sir. Your time is mine.”
“Very well. Three o’clock to-morrow. I shall have to explain the business to Mr. Luce when he comes back, and try to persuade him to look at it tolerantly. You have no legal right, Inspector.”
The policeman emptied his glass.
“It’s only a formality, sir. The woman’s like a damned wasp buzzing round our heads. She has tried to get me into trouble. I never thought much of Ballard, but his sister is a caution to snakes.”
“I know the breed. I hope poor Mrs. Ballard will never be at her mercy.”
“I’m pretty sure the poor thing is dead, sir; but if I saw her alive, I tell you I should feel inclined to turn my back and look the other way. Yes, just to spite that——.”
“Something beginning with B, Inspector.”
“Just so, sir. I know I shouldn’t be talking like this.”
“Nor I. But there are some people, Ford, who travel about with a sponge full of vinegar.”
“You’re right, sir, and unfortunately they’re not the sort of people we get a chance of shoving in gaol.”
3
Mr. Temperley made no inward apology to Miss Reubens for having used her as romantic and colourful decoration. He did not think Miss Reubens would object to having her name coupled with that of John Luce, any more than she might object—— But that was crass scandal! Also, if the good Ford was something of a gossip, and probably he was, the rumour might reach Miss Ballard. In fact, authority might use it as a plaster to be applied to the virago’s mouth.
Mr. Temperley did take other precautions, and an early morning walk which ended in the Brandon woods. He let himself into the tower, and with meticulous care examined it for any little clue that might catch the eye, and which could not be referred to the presence of the literary lady. He could find nothing, but it did occur to him that if any expert in finger prints were to come and take impressions he might discover too many traces of feminine occupation. Mr. Temperley was of the opinion that the Signal Tower had become an incubus to the estate, and that it would be economical to treat it as an interesting ruin.
The afternoon inspection was a perfunctory affair. Inspector Ford was punctual. Mr. Temperley, who was strolling round the derelict garden and observing Luce’s sowing of hardy annuals contending with a crop of even more hardy weeds, saw the big man wheeling his bicycle up the path. Mr. Temperley met him at the gate.
“Punctual, Inspector.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“I might have suggested your bringing Miss Ballard with you.”
Ford gave Mr. Temperley a blue and unsubtle stare, and pushed his bicycle into the shed by the gate.
“Quite superfluous, sir.”
Together they explored the tower, and Mr. Temperley could remark to his companion upon the pleasant eccentricities of a peripatetic philosopher who lived simply and wrote abstrusely. He was wondering what Ford thought of Luce’s camp bed, and of the hypothetical visits of Venus. Two in a tower, but most certainly not two in that bed. He even drew the inspector’s attention to it.
“Very celibate, that.”
Inspector Ford was wondering where the lady, if there was a lady
on occasions, spread her limbs. Perhaps she brought her own bed with her, one of those mattresses that could be inflated?
Mr. Temperley took his companion up to the leads, and with whimsical humour described how Mr. Luce took his bath here.
“His bath, sir?”
“Yes, Inspector, al fresco. And it is so easy to empty the water.”
They returned to the living-room, and here a most happy coincidence provided Mr. Temperley with further adventures into romance. He was standing by the window when a feminine figure appeared close to the bank of laurels. Mr. Temperley drew back.
“We’re caught, Inspector.”
“Someone there, sir?”
“The lady from the Chequers. Did I lock that outer door?”
“I think not, sir.”
“I’ll remedy that omission.”
He went to lock the green door, and in his absence Inspector Ford had a look at the lady.
Said Mr. Temperley, returning, “We are trespassing in more ways than one, Inspector. I think we must exercise tact.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“Other people’s private affairs. We had better sit down and wait till the lady has gone.”
“Yes, sir. It might be as well. I hope she won’t have spotted my bike.”
“Probably not. If they heard of this piece of trespassing neither she nor Mr. Luce would be pleased.”
XXIII
The Grand Hotel was kind to Rachel. That it was only spasmodically and incidentally English was a relief to her. People came for a night or two and passed on, nor save for the set meals, did she spend much time in the public rooms. She was served by a pleasant, soft-voiced little femme de chambre in a coquettish white cap, and a nice boy-waiter. She went daily to an old lady who lived near the Ostend Gate and who gave her French lessons. Luce had left her well supplied with money, but she was chary of spending it, just because it was his. Even a five-franc entrance fee to a gallery or museum was treated with respect. She liked to sit and read a French book in the hotel garden, and to talk childish French to madame. Monsieur was très paternal. The small, freckled chasseur always ran to open the door for her.
Luce’s first letter came to her on her breakfast tray.
“Mrs. John Luce.”
He had posted the letter in London, and in realizing that it was the first letter she had ever received from him, she opened it with a sense of strangeness. It was a very simple letter, robustly tender, and completely satisfying to her because it told her that he was well and safe. She understood its guarded sentences. She took his letter to the church in the Beguinage, and gave thanks for it to the man in God.
In this Belgian town she had discarded her tinted spectacles, but a few days after Luce had left her she became conscious of being stared at by someone in the salle-à-manger. She had a table overlooking the courtyard, and the visitor who appeared interested in her occupied a table by a window giving on the street. He was one of those incorrigibly young old men with a head like a smiling fœtus, a fringe of sandy hair, and a brilliant set of artificial teeth. His interest alarmed her. She began to search the past for forgotten faces, and to try and assure herself that his fat and florid interest in her was a mere recent impertinence. She avoided the lounge because she had a feeling that he was an old fool who would hover, even though she might give him to understand by her deliberately abstracted air that she did not want to be spoken to.
But the sex complacency of some old men is beyond understanding, and this peripatetic and bald-headed Juan shadowed her into the hotel garden. He suffered the light of his dental smile to shine upon her.
“Excuse me, but haven’t we met before?”
She was terrified. She had had no great experience of elderly Hot Dogs, and if this succulent person claimed that her face was vaguely familiar, could she accuse him of lying? She thought it best to behave like a simpleton.
“I don’t think so.”
He took her shyness to be artifice.
“In London, somewhere?”
“I’m afraid it can’t have been in London.”
He proceeded to sit down beside her on the green seat. He produced a cigarette case.
“Well, does it matter? Here we are both solus. Won’t you smoke?”
“I don’t.”
“How refreshing. Charming city, Bruges. But one gets a little lonely abroad. May I smoke?”
“Please do.”
She was wondering how she could shed him without being rude. And then it occurred to her that he might be a harmless old person, and if a complete stranger, mildly innocuous.
“On holiday here?”
“Yes. My husband was called back to England on business, and I am waiting for him.”
“Grass widow, what?”
“I suppose so.”
She remembered her French lesson, and was able to escape on this occasion, but she soon was made to realize that he was an unpleasantly persistent old rascal. He found out her name from madame; he began to wait for her on a seat in the courtyard. He attached himself to her.
“Going shopping?”
No, she was paying a second visit to the Hospital of St. John to look at the Memlings. He had never heard of Memling, but he insisted on accompanying her, and sat himself down on a chair beside her to contemplate the Virgin and Child.
“Any children?”
“You mean me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You should have. What’s your husband doing? A woman like you, made to have lovely children.”
She found him pawing her arm. Three elderly English women were twittering about the chasse of St. Ursula, and she rose and joined them. How was she to rebuff this unpleasantly familiar old person? He had followed her to the chasse; she was aware of him becoming crudely facetious upon the subject of the saintliness of St. Ursula. What a waste of good virgins! One of the English women was eyeing him indignantly. She remembered the church of the Beguinage, and her fastidious self imagined that it could take refuge there.
She said, “Good morning. I have a service to attend.”
She walked out of the hospital with an air of frigid aloofness, and he followed her, and confronting his persistence, while flying from it, she changed her mind. She walked straight back to the hotel with him trailing beside her; he was becoming still more facetiously offensive, and ironically paternal. Horrid old idiot! She maintained a voiceless austerity, and on reaching the hotel she took refuge in the office with madame.
She appealed to madame. Could nothing be done to prevent an unpleasant old gentleman following her about? It was so ennuyant, so bête. Madame was a woman who, in her hotel, could honour the conventions. It was unpardonable. She would speak to monsieur on the subject.
Apparently she did so, and monsieur was a man who, having entertained royalty and endured the Teuton, had a firm front and a trenchant eye. What he said to Mr. Hot Dog in a corner of the empty lounge is not recorded in the hotel’s history, but Rachel’s persecutor packed his luggage and took the train to Ostend.
That evening there was peace and a vacant table and no fœtus head to trouble her. Meeting madame on the stairs she gave her an upward glance of gratitude.
“Do I thank you, madame, for that empty table?”
“No, my dear, but monsieur will not mention it.”
He did not, but probably Monsieur Van den Berghe chuckled over the squelching of an insulted patron, and showed to Rachel a paternal politeness that did not so much as wink an eye.
Peace and no insinuating and senile persecutor! She wandered out and sat by the Minnewater and watched the water, and the sunlight shining on the trees.
2
Summer rain. Luce, sitting on a bunk in the caravan with a writing-pad on his knees, heard the multitudinous tapping of the rain’s fingers on the roof, and the dripping of the leaves. He had spent a day in London arranging certain affairs, and had travelled on to Candover with half a pound of tobacco for Mr. Bristow, some chocolates
for the old lady, and for both host and hostess a packet of innocuous lies. Yes, Mrs. Luce was still nursing her mother, and he had come to collect the car and caravan. A spoilt holiday? O, well, one had to be philosophic about such things. Mrs. Bristow had offered to give him supper, and on such a wet evening, and with no stores in hand, Luce had welcomed the invitation.
He was writing to Rachel, but even while his pen was covering the paper, his mind was playing with the pieces of the final problem. He could thank God for Mr. Temperley, and for the fact that his sudden change of plans would need no explaining to the person who was most concerned. But would it seem credible to Brandon that he could tire so quickly of the tower, and did Brandon matter? Had he still to respect the suspicious soul of society as it was represented by people like P.C. Pook and Miss Ballard? His feeling about it was that every detail mattered, and for the last few days he had been trying to envisage some situation that would give to his exit from the stage a dramatic inevitableness.
There was a break in the sky when he went in to supper, and sitting between the two old people in the farmhouse kitchen he saw the sun come through and throw a band of light across the table. Was it an omen? Nor could he know that to an old gentleman less than forty miles away, some rain and a clearing sky had offered other justifications. Mr. Temperley could say to Martha as she helped him to gooseberry tart “It is going to clear, Martha. I’ll take my walk after dinner.” All Brandon and Martha knew that Mr. Temperley was an inveterate walker, and that somehow he would manage to cover his six miles a day.
Said Martha, “You’d better take your mackintosh, sir.”
Mr. Temperley could be as petulant as Lob.
“I don’t like walking in a mackintosh, Martha.”
“Can’t you carry it, sir? We don’t want you in bed again with lumbago.”
Martha was a literal person, and Mr. Temperley took his mackintosh and a pocketful of mischief.
If Mr. Temperley desired solitude and an escape from social salutations it was easy for him to elude them. There was a door in the garden wall on the north side of the vegetable garden which opened into a public footpath, and from this path Mr. Temperley could make his way into the park. The open grassland with its splendid trees, oaks, beeches, cedars, chestnuts, Scotch firs and sequoias, spread its green undulations to lap like the sea against the dark cliffs of the Brandon woods. Mr. Temperley met no one. With the sun breaking through, its horizontal light made grass and trees exquisitely brilliant. A little, circular, classic temple poised on a knoll between two groups of dark firs, raised its white pillars and leaded dome against a mass of cloud.
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