Dead Water ra-23

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Which it won’t,” said Major Barrimore. “If I’m any judge. She’s hell-bent on wrecking the whole show.”

  Mr. Nankivell allowed himself a speculative grin. “Happen she don’t know the value, however,” he insinuated.

  “Perhaps she’s concerned with other values,” the Rector murmured.

  At this point Mrs. Barrimore returned.

  “Don’t move,” she said and sat down in a chair near the door. “I don’t know if I’m still…?”

  Mr. Nankivell embarked on a gallantry but Barrimore cut across it. “You’d better listen, Margaret,” he said, with a restless glance at his wife. “After all, she may talk to you.”

  “Surely, surely!” the Mayor exclaimed. “The ladies understand each other in a fashion that’s above the heads of us mere chaps, bean’t it, Miss Cost?”

  Miss Cost said: “I’m sure I don’t know,” and looked very fixedly at Mrs. Barrimore.

  “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” Dr. Mayne observed.

  The Mayor cleared his throat. “This bean’t what you’d call a formal committee,” he began, “but if it was, and if I was in occupation of the chair, I’d move we took the temper of the meeting.”

  “Very good,” Barrimore said. “Excellent suggestion. I propose His Worship be elected chairman. Those in favour?” The others muttered a disjointed assent, and the Mayor expanded. He suggested that what they really had to discover was how each of them proposed to respond to Miss Pride’s onslaught. He invited them to speak in turn — beginning with the Rector, who repeated that they all knew his views and that he would abide by them.

  “Does that mean,” Major Barrimore demanded, “that if she says she’s going to issue a public repudiation of the spring, remove the enclosure and stop the Festival, you’d come down on her side?”

  “I shouldn’t try to dissuade her.”

  The Mayor made an explosive sound and turned on him. “If you’ll pardon my frankness, Mr. Carstairs,” he began, “I’d be obliged if you’d tell the company what you reckon would have happened to your Church Restoration Fund if Portcarrow hadn’t benefited by the spring to the extent it has done. Where’d you’ve got the money to repair your tower? You wouldn’t’ve got it, no, nor anything like it.”

  Mr. Carstairs’s normally sallow face reddened painfully. “No,” he said, “I don’t suppose we should.”

  “Hah!” said Miss Cost. “There you are!”

  “I’m a Methodist, myself,” said the Mayor in triumph.

  “Quite so,” Mr. Carstairs agreed.

  “Put it this way. Will you egg the woman on, sir, in her foolish notions? Will you do that?”

  “No. It’s a matter of her own conscience.”

  The Mayor, Major Barrimore and Miss Cost all began to expostulate. Dr. Mayne said with repressed impatience, “I really don’t think there’s any future in pressing the point.”

  “Nor do I,” said Mrs. Barrimore unexpectedly.

  Miss Cost, acidly smiling, looked from her to Dr. Mayne and then, fixedly, at Major Barrimore.

  “Very good, Doctor,” Mr. Nankivell said. “What about yourself, then?”

  Dr. Mayne stared distastefully at his own hands and said: “Paradoxically, I find myself in some sort of agreement with the Rector. I, too, haven’t disguised my views. I have an open mind about these cases. I have neither encouraged nor discouraged my patients’ making use of the spring. When there has been apparent benefit I have said nothing to undermine anyone’s faith in its permanency. I am neutral.”

  “And from that impregnable position,” Major Barrimore observed, “you’ve added a dozen rooms to your bloody Convalescent Home. Beg pardon, Rector.”

  “Keith!”

  Major Barrimore turned on his wife. “Well, Margaret?” he demanded. “What’s your objection?”

  Miss Cost gave a shrill laugh.

  Before Mrs. Barrimore could answer, Dr. Mayne said very coolly: “You’re perfectly right. I have benefited, like all the rest of you. But as far as my practice is concerned, I believe Miss Pride’s activities will make very little difference, in the long run. Either to it, or to the popular appeal of the spring. Sick people who are predisposed to the idea will still think they know better. Or hope they know better,” he added. “Which is, I suppose, much the same thing.”

  “That’s all damn’ fine, but it won’t be the same thing to the community at large,” Barrimore angrily pointed out. “Tom, Dick and Harry and their friends and relations, swarming all over the place… The Island, a tripper’s shambles, and the press making a laughingstock of the whole affair.” He emptied his glass.

  “And the Festival!” Miss Cost wailed. “The Festival! All our devotion! The response! The disappointment. The humiliation!” She waved her hands. A thought struck her. “And Wally! He has actually memorized! After weeks of patient endeavour, he has memorized his little verses. Only this afternoon. One trivial slip. The choir is utterly committed.”

  “I’ll be bound,” said Mr. Nankivell heartily. “A credit to all concerned, and a great source of gratification to the borough if looked at in the proper spirit. We’m all waiting on the Doctor, however,” he added. “Now, Doctor, what is it to be? What’ll you say to the lady?”

  “Exactly what I said two minutes ago to you,” Dr. Mayne snapped. “I’ll give my opinion if she wants it. I don’t mind pointing out to her that the thing will probably go on after a fashion, whatever she does.”

  “I suppose that’s something,” said the Mayor gloomily. “Though not much, with an elderly female so deadly set on destruction.”

  “I,” Miss Cost intervened hotly, “shall not mince my words. I shall tell her — No,” she amended with control, “I shall plead with her. I shall appeal to the nobler side. Let us hope that there is one. Let us hope so.”

  “I second that from the chair,” said Mr. Nankivell. “Though with reservations prejudicial to an optimistic view. Major?”

  “What’ll I do? I’ll try and reason with her. Give her a straight picture of the incontrovertible cures. If the man of science,” Major Barrimore said with a furious look at Dr. Mayne, “would come off his high horse and back me up, I might get her to listen. As it is—” he passed his palm over his hair and gave a half-smile —“I’ll do what I can with the lady. I want another drink. Anyone join me?”

  The Mayor, and, after a little persuasion, Miss Cost joined him. He made towards the old Private Taproom. As he opened the door, he admitted sounds of voices and of people crossing the flagstone to the main entrance.

  Patrick looked in. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to his mother. “The busload’s arrived.”

  She got up quickly. “I must go,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  His stepfather said: “Damn! All right.” And to the others: “I won’t be long. Pat, look after the drinks, here, will you? Two double Scotches and a glass of the sweet port.”

  He went out, followed by his wife and Patrick, and could be heard welcoming his guests. “Good evening! Good evening to you! Now, come along in. You must be exhausted. Awfully glad to see you—”

  His voice faded.

  There was a brief silence.

  “Yes,” said the Mayor. “Yes. Be-the-way, we didn’t get round to axing the lady’s view, did we — Mrs. Barrimore’s?”

  For some reason they all looked extremely uncomfortable.

  Miss Cost gave a shrill laugh.

  “And I’d take it as a personal favour,” Alleyn dictated, “if you could spare a man to keep an eye on the Island when Miss Pride arrives there. Very likely nothing will come of these communications, but, as we all know, they can lead to trouble. I ought to warn you that Miss Pride, though eighty-three, is in vigorous possession of all her faculties and if she drops to it that you’ve got her under observation, she may cut up rough. No doubt, like all the rest of us, you’re understaffed and won’t thank me for putting you to this trouble. If your chap does notice anything out of the way, I would be very glad to h
ear of it. Unless a job blows up to stop me, I’m grabbing an overdue week’s leave from tomorrow and will be at the above address.

  “Again — sorry to be a nuisance. Yours sincerely, …

  “All right. Got the name? Superintendent A. F. Coombe, Divisional H.Q., wherever it is — at Portcarrow itself, I fancy. Get it off straight away, will you?”

  When the letter had gone he looked at his watch. Five minutes past midnight. His desk was cleared and his files closed. I should have written before, he thought. My letter will arrive with Miss Emily.

  He was ready to leave, but for some reason dawdled there, too tired, suddenly, to make a move.

  After a vague moment or two, he lit his pipe, looked round his room and walked down the long corridor and the stairs, wishing the P.C. on duty at the doors “Goodnight.”

  It was his only superstition. By the pricking of my thumbs… As he drove away down the Embankment he thought: Damned if I don’t ring that Super up in the morning: be damned if I don’t.

  III

  Threats

  Miss Emily arrived at noon on Monday. She had stayed overnight in Dorset and was as fresh as paint. It was agreeable to be able to command a chauffeur-driven car, and the man was not unintelligent.

  When they drew up at Portcarrow jetty she gave him a well-considered tip, asked his name and told him she would desire, particularly, that he should be deputed for the return journey.

  She then alighted, observed by a small gang of wharf loiterers.

  A personable young man came forward to meet her.

  “Miss Pride? I’m Patrick Ferrier. I hope you had a good journey.”

  Miss Emily was well-disposed towards the young and was, she had good reason to believe, a competent judge of them. She inspected Patrick and received him with composure. He introduced a tall, glowing girl who came forward, rather shyly, to shake hands. Miss Emily had less experience of girls but she liked the look of this one and was gracious.

  “The causeway is negotiable,” Patrick said, “but we thought you’d prefer the launch.”

  “It is immaterial,” she rejoined. “The launch let it be.”

  Patrick and the chauffeur handed her down the steps. Trehern stowed away her luggage and was profuse in cap-touching. They shoved off from the jetty, still watched by idlers, among whom, conspicuous in his uniform, was a police sergeant. “ ’Morning, Pender!” Patrick called cheerfully as he caught sight of him.

  In a motor launch, the trip across was ludicrously brief, but even so Miss Emily, bolt upright in the stern, made it portentous. The sun shone and against it she displayed her open umbrella as if it were a piece of ceremonial plumage. Her black kid gloves gripped the handle centrally and her handbag, enormous and vise-like in its security, was placed between her feet. She looked, Patrick afterwards suggested, like some Burmese female deity. “We should have arranged to have had her carried, shoulder-high, over the causeway,” he said.

  Major Barrimore, with a porter in attendance, awaited her on the Island’s jetty landing. He resembled, Jenny thought, an illustration from an Edwardian sporting journal. “Well tubbed” was the expression. His rather prominent eyes were a little bloodshot. He had to sustain the difficult interval that spanned approach and arrival and decide when to begin smiling and making appropriate gestures. Miss Emily gave him no help. Jenny and Patrick observed him with misgivings.

  “Good morning!” he shouted, gaily bowing, as they drew alongside. Miss Emily slightly raised and lowered her umbrella.

  “That’s right, Trehern. Easy does it. Careful man,” Major Barrimore chattered. “Heave me that line. Splendid!” He dropped the loop over a bollard and hovered, anxiously solicitous, with extended arm. “Welcome! Welcome!” he cried:

  “Good morning, Major Barrimore,” Miss Emily said. “Thank you. I can manage perfectly.” Disregarding Trehern’s outstretched hand, she looked fixedly at him. “Are you the father?” she asked.

  Trehern removed his cap and grinned with all his might. “That I be, ma’am,” he said. “If you be thinking of our Wally, ma-am, that I be, and mortal proud to own up to him.”

  “I shall see you, if you please,” said Miss Emily, “later.” For a second or two everyone was motionless.

  She shook hands with her host.

  “This is nice,” he assured her. “And what a day we’ve produced for you! Now, about these steps of ours. Bit stiff, I’m afraid. May I…?”

  “No, thank you. I shall be sustained in my ascent,” said Miss Emily, fixing Miss Cost’s shop and then the hotel façade in her gaze, “by the prospect.”

  She led the way up the steps.

  “ ’Jove!” the Major exclaimed when they arrived at the top. “You’re too good for me, Miss Pride. Wonderful going! Wonderful!”

  She looked briefly at him. “My habits,” she said, “are abstemious. A little wine or cognac only. I have never been a smoker.”

  “Jolly good! Jolly good!” he applauded. Jenny began to feel acutely sorry for him.

  Margaret Barrimore waited in the main entrance. She greeted Miss Emily with no marked increase in her usual diffidence. “I hope you had a pleasant journey,” she said. “Would you like to have luncheon upstairs? There’s a small sitting-room we’ve kept for you. Otherwise, the dining-room is here.” Miss Emily settled for the dining-room but wished to see her apartment first. Mrs. Barrimore took her up. Her husband, Patrick and Jenny stood in the hall below and had nothing to say to each other. The Major, out of forgetfulness, it seemed, was still madly beaming. He caught his stepson’s eye, uttered an expletive and without further comment made for the bar.

  Miss Emily, when she had lunched, took her customary siesta. She removed her dress and shoes, loosened her stays, put on a grey cotton peignoir and lay on the bed. There were several illustrated brochures to hand and she examined them. One contained a rather elaborate account of the original cure. It displayed a-fanciful drawing of the Green Lady, photographs of the spring, of Wally Trehern and of a number of people passing through a sort of turnpike. A second gave a long list of subsequent healings, with names and personal tributes. Miss Emily counted them up. Nine warts, five asthmas (including Miss Cost), three arthritics, two migraines and two chronic diarrheas (anonymous). “And many many more who have experienced relief and improvement,” the brochure added. A folder advertised the coming Festival and, inset, Elspeth Cost’s Gifte Shoppe. A more businesslike leaflet caught her attention.

  The Tides at Portcarrow

  The tides running between the village and the Island show considerable variation in clock times. Roughly speaking, the water reaches its peak level twice in 24 hours and its lowest level at times which are about midway between those of high water. High and dead water times may vary from day to day with a lag of about 1–1 3/4 hours in 24. Thus, if high water falls at noon on Sunday it may occur somewhere between I and 1:45 p.m. on Monday afternoon. About a fortnight may elapse before the cycle is completed and high water again falls between noon and 1:45 on Sunday.

  Visitors will usually find the causeway is negotiable for 2 hours before and after low water. The hotel launch and dinghies are always available and all the jetties reach into deep water at low tide.

  Expected times for high tide and dead water will be posted up daily at the Reception Desk in the main entrance.

  Miss Emily studied this information for some minutes. She then consulted a whimsical map of the island, with boats, fish, nets and pixies; and, of course, a Green Lady. She noted that it showed a direct route from the Boy-and-Lobster to the spring.

  At five o’clock she had tea brought to her. Half an hour later, she dressed and descended, umbrella in hand, to the vestibule.

  The hall porter was on duty. When he saw Miss Emily he pressed a bellpush on his desk and rose with a serviceable smirk. “Can I help you, madam?” he asked.

  “Insofar as I require admission to the enclosure, I believe you may. I understand that entry is effected by means of some plaque or token,” said Mi
ss Emily.

  He opened a drawer and extracted a metal disk. “I shall require,” she said, “seven,” and laid two half-crowns and a florin on the desk. The hall porter completed the number.

  “No, no, no!” Major Barrimore expostulated, bouncing out from the interior. “We can’t allow this. Nonsense!” He waved the hall porter aside. “See that a dozen of these things are sent up to Miss Pride’s suite,” he said and bent gallantly over his guest. “I’m so sorry! Ridiculous!”

  “You are very good,” she rejoined, “but I prefer to pay.” She opened her reticule, swept the disks into it and shut it with a formidable snap. “Thank you,” she said to the hall porter, and prepared to leave.

  “I don’t approve,” Major Barrimore began, “I — really, it’s very naughty of you. Now, may I — as it’s your first visit since — may I just show you the easiest way?”

  “I have, I think, discovered it from the literature provided, and need not trespass upon your time, Major Barrimore. I am very much obliged to you.”

  Something in her manner, or perhaps a covert glance from his employer, had caused the hall porter to disappear.

  “In respect of my letter,” Miss Emily said, with a direct look at the Major, “I would suggest that we postpone any discussion until I have made myself fully conversant with prevailing conditions on my property. I hope this arrangement is convenient?”

  “Anything!” he cried. “Naturally. Anything! But I do hope—”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Emily, and left him.

  The footpath from the hotel to the spring followed, at an even level, the contour of an intervening slope. It was wide and well-surfaced, and, as she had read in one of the brochures, amply provided for the passage of a wheeled chair. She walked along it at a steady pace, looking down, as she did so, at Fisherman’s Bay, the cottages, the narrow strip of water and a not very distant prospect of the village. A mellow light lay across the hillside; there was a prevailing scent of sea and of bracken. A lark sang overhead. It was very much the same sort of afternoon as that upon which, two years ago, Wally Trehern had blundered up the hillside to the spring. Over the course he had so blindly taken there was now a well-defined, tar-sealed and tactfully graded route, which converged with Miss Emily’s footpath at the entrance to the spring.