by Ngaio Marsh
The spring itself, its pool, its modest waterfall and the bouldered slope above it, were now enclosed by a high wire-netting fence. There were one or two rustic benches outside this barricade. Entrance was effected through a turnpike of tall netted flanges, which could be operated by the insertion into a slot machine of one of the disks with which Miss Emily was provided.
She did not immediately make use of it. There were people at the spring: an emaciated man whose tragic face had arrested Jenny Williams’s attention at the bus stop, and a young woman with a baby. The man knelt by the fall and seemed only by an effort to sustain his thin hands against the pressure of the water. His head was downbent. He rose, and, without looking at them, walked by the mother and child to a one-way exit from the enclosure. As he passed Miss Emily his gaze met hers, and his mouth hesitated in a smile. Miss Emily inclined her head and they said “Good evening” simultaneously. “I have great hopes,” the man said rather faintly. He lifted his hat and moved away downhill.
The young woman, in her turn, had knelt by the fall. She had bared the head of her baby and held her cupped hand above it. A trickle of water glittered briefly. Miss Emily sat down abruptly on a bench and shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, the young woman with the baby was coming towards her.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Can I help you? Do you want to go in?”
“I am not ill,” Miss Emily said, and added, “Thank you, my dear.”
“Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry. That’s all right, then.”
“Your baby. Has your baby…?”
“Well, yes. It’s sort of a deficiency, the doctor says. He just doesn’t seem to thrive. But there’ve been such wonderful reports — you can’t get away from it, can you? So I’ve got great hopes.”
She lingered on for a moment and then smiled and nodded and went away.
“Great hopes!” Miss Emily muttered. “Ah, mon Dieu! Great hopes indeed.”
She pulled herself together and extracted a nickel disk from her bag. There was a notice by the turnstile saying that arrangements could be made at the hotel for stretcher cases to be admitted. Miss Emily let herself in and inspected the terrain. The freshet gurgled in and out of its pool. The waterfall prattled. She looked towards the brow of the hill. The sun shone full in her eyes and dazzled them. She walked round to a ledge above the spring, and found a flat rock upon which she seated herself. Behind her was a bank and, above that, the boulder and bracken where Wally’s Green Lady was generally supposed to have appeared. Miss Emily opened her umbrella and composed herself.
She presented a curious figure, motionless, canopied and black, and did indeed resemble, as Patrick had suggested, some outlandish presiding deity, whether benign or inimical must be a matter of conjecture. During her vigil seven persons visited the spring and were evidently much taken aback by Miss Emily.
She remained on her perch until the sun went down behind the hill and, there being no more pilgrims to observe, descended and made her way downhill to Fisherman’s Bay, and thence, round the point, to Miss Cost’s shop. On her way she overtook the village police sergeant, who seemed to be loitering. Miss Emily gave him “Good evening.”
It was now a quarter to seven. The shop was open and, when Miss Emily went in, deserted. There was a bell on the counter but she did not ring it. She examined the welter of objects for sale. They were as Patrick had described them to Jenny: fanciful reconstructions in plastic of the spring, the waterfall and Wally’s cottage; badly printed rhyme-sheets; booklets, calendars and postcards all of which covered much the same ground. Predominant among all these wares, cropping up everywhere, in print and in plastic — smirking, even, in the form of doll and cut-out — was the Green Lady. The treatment was consistent: a verdigris-coloured garment, long yellow hair, upraised hand and a star on the head. There was a kind of madness in the prolific insistence of this effigy. Jostling each other in a corner were the products of Miss Cost’s handloom: scarves, jerkins and cloaks of which the prevailing colours were a sad blue and mauve. Miss Emily turned from them with a shudder of incredulity.
A door from the interior opened and Miss Cost entered on a wave of cottage pie, wearing one of her own jerkins.
“I thought I heard—” she began and then she recognized her visitor. “Ae-oh!” she said. “Good evening. Hem!”
“Miss Cost, I believe. May I have a dozen threepenny stamps, if you please?”
When these had been purchased Miss Emily said: “There is possibly no need for me to introduce myself. My name is Pride. I am your landlord.”
“So I understand,” said Miss Cost. “Quite.”
“You are no doubt aware of my purpose in visiting the Island; but I think, perhaps, I should make my position clear.”
Miss Emily made her position very clear indeed. If Miss Cost wished to renew her lease of the shop in three months’ time, it could only be on condition that any objects which directly or indirectly advertised the spring was withdrawn from sale.
Miss Cost listened to this with a fixed stare and a clasp-knife smile. When it was over she said that she hoped Miss Pride would not think it out of place if she, Miss Cost, mentioned that her little stock of fairings had been highly praised in discriminating quarters, and had given pleasure to thousands. Especially, she added, to the kiddies.
Miss Emily said she could well believe it, but that was not the point at issue.
Miss Cost said that each little novelty had been conceived in a spirit of reverence.
Miss Emily did not dispute the conception. The distribution, however, was a matter of commercial enterprise, was it not?
At this juncture a customer came in and bought a plastic Green Lady.
When she had gone, Miss Cost said she hoped that Miss Pride entertained no doubts about the efficacy of the cures.
“If I do,” said Miss Emily, “it is of no moment. It is the commercial exploitation that concerns us. That, I cannot tolerate.” She examined Miss Cost for a second or two and her manner changed slightly. “I do not question your faith in the curative properties of the spring,” she said. “I do not suggest, I assure you, that in exploiting public credulity you do so consciously and cynically.”
“I should hope not!” Miss Cost burst out. “I! I! My asthma…I, who am a living witness! Ae-oh!”
“Quite so. Moreover, when the Island has been restored to its former condition, I shall not prevent access to the spring any more than I shall allow extravagant claims to be canvassed. It will not be closed to the public. Quite on the contrary.”
“They will ruin it! The vandalism! The outrages! Even now, with every precaution…the desecration!”
“That can be attended to.”
“Faërie ground,” Miss Cost suddenly announced, “is holy ground.”
“I am unable to determine whether you adopt a pagan or a Christian attitude,” said Miss Emily. She indicated a rhyme-sheet which was clothes-pegged to a line above the counter. It read:
Ye olde olde wayes were wise old wayes.
(Iron and water, earthe and stone.)
Ye Hidden Folke of antient dayes,
Ye Greene Companions’ Runic Layes,
Wrought Magick with a Bone.
Ye plashing Falles ther Secrette holde.
(Iron and water, earthe and stone.)
On us as on those menne of olde
Their mighte of healing is Bestowed
And wonders still are showne.
Oh, thruste your hands beneathe the rille!
(Iron and water, earthe and stone.)
And itte will washe awae your ille,
With neweborn cheere your bodie fille
That antient Truth bee knowne.
“Who,” asked Miss Emily, fixing her gaze upon Miss Cost, “is the author of this doggerel?”
“It is unsigned,” she said loudly. “These old rhymes—”
“The spelling is spurious, and the paper contemporary. Does it express your own views, Miss Cost?”
“Yes,” said Miss Cost, shutting her eyes. “It does. A thousand times, yes.”
“So I imagined. Well, now,” Miss Emily briskly continued, “You know mine. Take time to consider…There is one other matter.”
Her black kid forefinger indicated a leaflet advertising the Festival. “This,” she said.
A spate of passionate defiance broke from Miss Cost. Her voice was pitched high, and she stared at some object beyond Miss Emily’s left shoulder.
“You can’t stop us!” she cried. “You can’t! You can’t prevent people walking up a hill. You can’t prevent them singing. I’ve made inquiries. We’re not causing a disturbance, and it’s all authorized by the Mayor. He’s part of it. Ask him! Ask the Mayor. Ask the Major! We’ve got hundreds and hundreds of people coming, and you can’t stop them. You can’t, you can’t!”
Her voice cracked and she drew breath. Her hands moved to her chest.
Into the silence that followed there crept a very small and eerie sound: a faint, rhythmic squeak. It came from Miss Cost.
Miss Emily heard it. After a moment she said, with compassion: “I am sorry. I shall leave you. I shall not attempt to prevent your Festival. It must be the last, but I shall not prevent it.”
As she prepared to leave, Miss Cost, now struggling for breath, gasped after her.
“You wicked woman! This is your doing.” She beat her chest. “You’ll suffer for it. More than I do. Mark my words! You’ll suffer.”
Miss Emily turned to look at her. She sat on a stool behind the counter. Her head nodded backwards and forwards with her laboured breathing.
“Is there anything I can do?” Miss Emily asked. “You have an attack—”
“I haven’t! I haven’t! Go away. Wicked woman! Go away!”
Miss Emily, greatly perturbed, left the shop. As she turned up from the jetty, a boy shambled out of the shadows, stared at her for a moment, gave a whooping cry and ran up the steps. It was Wally Trehern.
The encounter with Miss Cost had tired Miss Emily. She was upset. It had, of course, been a long day and there were still those steps to be climbed. There was a bench halfway up and she decided to rest there for a few minutes before making the final ascent. Perhaps she would ask for an early dinner in her room and go to bed afterwards. It would never do to overtire herself. She took the steps slowly, using her umbrella as a staff, and was rather glad when she reached the bench. It was a relief to sit there and observe the foreshore, the causeway and the village.
Down below, at the end of the jetty, a group of fishermen stood talking. The police constable, she noticed, had joined them. They seemed to be looking up at her. “I daresay it’s got about,” she thought, “who I am and all the rest of it. Bah!”
She stayed on until she was refreshed. The evening had begun to close in and she was in the lee of the hill. There was a slight coolness in the air. She prepared, after the manner of old people, to rise.
At that moment she was struck between the shoulder blades, on the back of her neck and head and on her arm. Stones fell with a rattle at her feet. Above and behind her there was a scuffling sound of retreat and of laughter.
She got up, scarcely knowing what she did. She supposed afterwards that she must have cried out. The next thing that happened was that the policeman was running heavily uphill towards her.
“Hold hard, now ma-am,” he was saying. “Be you hurt, then?”
“No. Stones. From above. Go and look.”
He peered at her for a moment and then scrambled up the sharp rise behind the bench. He slithered and skidded, sending down a cascade of earth. Miss Emily sank back on the bench. She drew her glove off and touched her neck with a trembling hand. It was wet.
The sergeant floundered about overhead. Unexpectedly two of the fishermen had arrived and, more surprising still, the tall bronze girl. What was her name?
“Miss Pride,” she was saying, “you’re hurt! What happened?” She knelt down by Miss Emily and took her hands.
The men were talking excitedly and presently the constable was there again, swearing and breathing hard. “Too late,” he was saying. “Missed ’im.”
Miss Emily’s head began to clear a little.
“I am perfectly well,” she said in French — rather faintly and more to herself than to the others, “it is nothing.”
“You’ve been hurt. Your neck!” Jenny said, also in French. “Let me look.”
“You are too kind,” Miss Emily murmured. She suffered her neck to be examined. “Your accent,” she added more firmly, “is passable though not entirely d’une femme du monde. Where did you learn?”
“In Paris,” said Jenny. “There’s a cut in your neck, Miss Pride. It isn’t very deep but I’m going to bind it up. Mr. Pender, could I borrow your handkerchief? And I’ll make a pad of mine. Clean, luckily.”
While Miss Emily suffered these ministrations the men muttered together. There was a scrape of boots on the steps and a third fisherman came down from above. It was Trehern. He stopped short. “Hey!” he ejaculated. “What’s amiss, then?”
“Lady’s been hurt, poor dear,” one of the men said.
“Hurt!” Trehern exclaimed. “How? Why, if it bean’t Miss Pride! Hurt! What way?”
“Where would you be from, then, Jim?” Sergeant Pender asked.
“Up to pub as usual, George,” he said. “Where else?” A characteristic parcel protruded from his overcoat pocket. “Happen she took a fall? Them steps be treacherous going for females well gone into the terrors of antiquity.”
“Did you leave the pub this instant-moment?”
“Surely. Why?”
“Dicl you notice anybody up-along — off of the steps, like? In the rough?”
“Are you after them courting couples again, George Pender?”
“No,” said Mr. Pender shortly. “I bean’t.”
“I did not fall,” said Miss Emily loudly. She rose to her feet and confronted Trehern. “I was struck,” she said.
“Lord forbid, ma-am! Who’d take a fancy to do a crazy job like that?”
Jenny said to Pender: “I think we ought to get Miss Pride home.”
“So we should, then. Now, ma-am,” said Pender with an air of authority. “You’m not going to walk up them steps, if you please, so if you’ve no objection us chaps’ll manage you, same as if we was bringing you ashore in a rough sea.”
“I assure you, officer—”
“Very likely, ma-am, and you with the heart of a lion as all can see, but there’d be no kind of sense in it. Now, then, souls: Hup!”
And before she knew what had happened, Miss Emily was sitting on a chair of woollen-clad arms with her own arms neatly disposed by Mr. Pender round a pair of slightly fishy-smelling shoulders, and her face in close association with those of her bearers.
“Pretty as a picture,” Pender said. “Heave away, chaps. Stand aside, if you please, Jim.”
“My umbrella.”
“I’ve got it,” said Jenny. “And your bag.”
When they reached the top Miss Emily said: “I am extremely obliged. If you will allow me, officer, I would greatly prefer it if I might enter in the normal manner. I am perfectly able to do so and it will be less conspicuous.” And to Jenny: “Please ask them to put me down.”
“I think she’ll be all right,” Jenny said.
“Very good, ma-am,” said Pender. “Set ’er down, chaps. That’s clever. Gentle as a lamb.”
They stood round Miss Emily, and grinned bashfully at her.
“You have been very kind,” she said; “I hope you will be my guests; though it will be wiser, perhaps, if I do not give myself the pleasure of joining you. I will leave instructions. Thank you very much.”
She took her umbrella and handbag from Jenny, bowed to her escort and walked quite fast towards the entrance. Jenny followed her. On the way, they passed Wally Trehern.
Patrick was in the vestibule. Miss Emily inclined her head to him and made for the stairs. Her han
dbag was bloody and conspicuous. Jenny collected her room key from the desk.
“What on earth…?” Patrick said, coming up to her.
“Get Dr. Mayne, could you? Up to her room. And Patrick — there are two fishermen and Mr. Pender outside. She wants them to have drinks on her. Can you fix it? I’ll explain later.”
“Good Lord! Yes, all right.”
Jenny overtook Miss Emily on the landing. She was shaky and, without comment, accepted an arm. When they had reached her room she sat on her bed and looked at Jenny with an expression of triumph.
“I am not surprised,” she said, “it was to be expected, my dear”—and fainted.
“Well,” said Dr. Mayne, smiling into Miss Emily’s face, “there’s no great damage done. I think you’ll recover.”
“I have already done so.”
“Yes, I daresay, but I suggest you go slow for a day or two, you know. You’ve had a bit of shock. How old are you?”
“I’m eighty-three and four months.”
“Good God!”
“Ours is a robust family, Dr. Mayne. My sister, Fanny Winterbottom, whom I daresay you have met, would be alive today if she had not, in one of her extravagant moods, taken an excursion in a speedboat.”
“Did it capsize?” Jenny was startled into asking.
“Not at all. But the excitement was too much and the consequent depression exposed her to an epidemic of Asiatic influenza. From which she died. It was quite unnecessary, and the indirect cause of my present embarrassment.”
There was a short silence. Jenny saw Dr. Mayne’s eyebrows go up.
“Really?” he said. “Well, now, I don’t think we should have any more conversation tonight. Some hot milk with a little whisky or brandy, if you like it, and a couple of aspirins. I’ll look in tomorrow.”
