Nothing Venture

by Patricia Wentworth

  “No pyjamas?” said Ferdinand.

  Alfred was very dubious about pyjamas. No—Mr Weare hadn’t taken his dressing-gown or his hair-brushes. But Alfred was prepared to swear to a dozen pocket handkerchiefs, because they were new and Mrs Mellish had had them to mark.

  “Now that’s mighty strange,” said Ferdinand. “He’s taken his handkerchiefs and left his hair-brushes. And if all these things have gone, what have they gone in?”

  “Oh, there’s a suit-case missing, sir,” said Alfred.

  “Where from? Where did he keep it?”

  They were in Jervis’ room, Nan sitting on the edge of the bed, Alfred on his knees in front of piles of clothes, and Ferdinand moving restlessly about the room. Alfred got up and dusted himself.

  “Mr Weare likes to keep his suit-cases handy, sir. He wouldn’t have them taken to the box-room in case of wanting them in a hurry.” He opened a door in the wall near the head of the bed, and disclosed a deep cupboard. There were three or four suit-cases in it, and some hat-boxes.

  “Are you sure one is missing, Alfred?” said Nan.

  Alfred appeared, for once, to be on really firm ground.

  “The new Revelation, ma’am.”

  “And you’re sure it was here?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. He brought it down new from town. Mr Monk will tell you the same.”

  Downstairs again, Nan and Ferdinand faced one another.

  “It looks as if he’d gone away,” said Nan.

  “It surely looks like it.” Ferdinand’s eyes avoided hers.

  “Why didn’t he leave a message?”

  Ferdinand looked out of the window.

  “He might have given a telephone message or a telegram to someone to send off. I’ve done that myself—and sometimes it’s all right, but sometimes you’re liable to get let down.”

  “Why didn’t he leave a note here?”

  “Well—he seems to have been in a mighty hurry.”

  “Why did he taken all those handkerchiefs and leave his hair-brushes?” said Nan.

  XXXII

  There was no letter from Jervis by the post next day. Nan did not know that she was counting on one until the post had come and brought nothing. She looked at Ferdinand, and Ferdinand exercised some ingenuity.

  “Now look there, there’s a thing he might have done—a thing I’ve done myself when I’ve had my mind all taken up with something. He might have written a note to leave here, and have gone away with it in his pocket. If he finds it, he’ll send a wire—but he mightn’t find it till he gets back home. It’s a thing might happen to anyone. Why, in my own hometown there was the case of Shucks Lawson. Poor old Shucks had got it bad. He wasn’t a man any more; he was just a shadow—Cornelia Van Bien’s shadow. And then all of a sudden he lit out and everyone would have bet their bottom dollar that Cornelia had given him the mitten. By and by Cornelia began to look kind of shadowy too. She’d never been what you’d call robust, but she got so poetic-looking that she pretty nearly wasn’t there at all. And then one day she got a cable from Melbourne, Australia—and I know what was in it, because I knew the operator pretty well, and he told me. It was one of the longest cables we’d ever had in our town, and he was kind of proud of it. It said: ‘Letter proposing marriage just found pocket winter suit can you forgive love you to distraction cable reply or shall go plumb crazy Shucks.’”

  Nan had been looking down at her plate. She had made a very fitful breakfast. She heard Ferdinand’s voice, but she did not really hear what he was saying, because her own thoughts were speaking so loudly all the time. She felt suddenly as if she could not sit there and listen to them any longer. Her face changed, her mouth quivered. She pushed back her chair and got up.

  “I must go and see Mrs Mellish,” she said.

  Since she had come to King’s Weare she had daily interviewed Mrs Mellish. It was really Mrs Mellish who conducted the interview, but Nan hoped that with a little practice she might yet arrive at ordering beef when Mrs Mellish had proposed mutton.

  She proceeded to the housekeeper’s room, and was received with Mrs Mellish’s usual austere respect—a respect not in the least personal, but indicative of the fact that Mrs Mellish knew her manners. Today Nan approved the menu without so much as reading it. She stood, and Mrs Mellish stood. She said, “Yes, that will do very well,” and continued to stand, looking past Mrs Mellish in a manner which was secretly resented—“There’s places where one should be, and there’s places where one shouldn’t be; but to be looked past as if I wasn’t there—in my own housekeeper’s room—well!” Nan continued to look past her until Mrs Mellish, in her own phraseology, “Could abear it no longer.”

  “Was there anything further, ma’am” she said in such a politely controlled voice that anyone less absorbed than Nan could scarcely have missed the offence behind it.

  Nan did not start, but she came out of her abstraction and turned her eyes upon Mrs Mellish’s face.

  “Yes,” she said. “I wanted to ask you whether you or the maids heard anything on the night Mr Weare went away. We think he has written, and that the letter has been mislaid.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Mrs Mellish’s tone was not really a very encouraging one.

  “If anyone noticed anything,” said Nan, “it would be a help. Someone may have heard him moving about. It would be a help if we knew what time it was when he went out. We are—” She paused for a long time, and then said, “anxious.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Mrs Mellish.

  Her plainly banded hair made the neatest possible frame to her plump, pale face. The hair was iron grey. In the morning Mrs Mellish dressed to match her hair, in a strong iron-grey material which suggested in the most insistent manner reliability and moral worth.

  “Will you ask if anyone noticed anything?”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” said Mrs Mellish.

  She left Nan to a feeling that she had been knocking imploringly upon a door that was not made to open. Then, as she stood waiting for Mrs Mellish to return, it came to Nan that it was not so much that the door was not made to open, as that it had been deliberately slammed in her face. She stood there and thought about this. Why do people slam doors? Either because they are angry, or else because they have something to hide. There wasn’t any reason why Mrs Mellish should be angry with her. Had Mrs Mellish by any chance got something to hide?

  Mrs Mellish came back into the room with the slow walk of a comfortably covered woman who is concerned with her dignity. It appeared that nobody had noticed anything. Gladys had slept all night—“and hard enough to get her up in the morning, ma’am.” Fanny had waked up with the cocks crowing, but she hadn’t been awake more than five minutes and she “hadn’t heard nothing.”

  “And you, Mrs Mellish? Your room is the nearest.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Her eyelids came down over her rather pale and prominent eyes. There was the effect of a blind being pulled down. First the door of the house had been slammed, and now the blinds were down. In a civilized country you cannot break into somebody else’s house. Nan turned and walked out of the room with the sense of defeat heavy upon her.

  She found Ferdinand Fazackerley in the study.

  “I want to go and see Rosamund,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I want to.”

  “Why do you want to?”

  Nan put her hand to her cheek.

  “She talked too much.”

  “When?”

  “On the telephone—I suppose it was yesterday.”

  “How do you mean, she talked too much?” Ferdinand’s eyes darted questions.

  Nan pushed back her hair.

  “She doesn’t talk—much—to me—as a rule. She wouldn’t say three words to me if she could make two do. She wouldn’t speak to me at all unless she simply had to. But when I telephoned to ask her if she had seen Jervis, she talked a lot.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I think she was trying to
make me angry. I can’t remember what she said—it wasn’t worth remembering.” Her chin lifted a little. “I just wondered why she said so much.”

  Ferdinand frowned, looked as if he was going to speak, checked himself on an indeterminate vowel sound, and then said,

  “Do you want me to drive you up there?”

  Nan nodded.

  They had a silent drive. When they came to the place where the wheel had come off Jervis’ car two days before, Nan, on the seaward side, looked down over the cliff with a steady, thoughtful gaze. The sea came up against the cliff. It was deep enough to have hidden the car if it had gone over. The water would have stood above it—green water shading to blue. The car would have been drawn by ebb into the race that sets round Croyde Head, and there, amongst the rocks, they would have been battered to pulp or sucked down into the soft bubbling quicksands beyond the head.

  She turned her eyes from the sea to the square ugliness of Robert Leonard’s house.

  “He’s been away,” said Ferdinand, as if she had named the man.

  Instantly Nan flashed round on him.

  “When did he go? Where has he been?”

  “He went away on Thursday.”

  “This is Thursday,” said Nan. She paused. “Isn’t it?”

  The sense of strain that loses count of time made it difficult to be sure of where they were in the week. It was between the Tuesday night and Wednesday morning that Jervis had gone out and not come back.

  “Yes, it’s Thursday all right. It was Tuesday we lunched with the Tetterleys. Leonard had crocked his car, you remember. Well, he got it going enough to take him into Croyston that evening. He ran it into Brown’s garage for repairs, and he dined and slept at the George. He had breakfast there Wednesday morning very sharp at eight, and he hired a motor-bicycle to take him out here in time to save his incubators from going cold. He’s got a perfectly watertight alibi, you see.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Nan. “If he was planning anything wicked, isn’t that just what he’d do—go away and pretend he wasn’t here?”

  Ferdinand looked at her quickly sideways.

  “I went to the George. He was playing billiards until half-past eleven. The chambermaid called him at seven. His car was in Brown’s garage out of action—I went there and made sure of that.”

  Nan’s lips made an unwontedly hard line. She held them close over something which she didn’t want to say, because if she said it, the spoken words might break her self-control, and she would want it all if she was going to see Rosamund.

  Ferdinand did not press her. He did not in fact speak until they reached the Tetterleys. Then he looked quickly at her again, thought how pale she was, and said,

  “Well, I’m not on in this scene, I guess. I’ll put her in the shade and wait.”

  Nan was shown into the drawing-room, a big formal room which Mabel Tetterley used as little as possible. It was still furnished after her mother-in-law’s taste, Basher having proved extraordinarily obstinate when pressed to get rid of an ebony grand piano, two ormolu cabinets, an immense pale carpet with bunches of pink and yellow roses festooned with blue ribbon, and a quantity of water-colour paintings executed by the late Lady Tetterley in a frigid classical style.

  Rosamund was standing at the far end of this room. She held a cigarette in her right hand. She was dressed in pale yellow linen. As Nan came towards her, she turned away to pick up a match-box.

  Nan stood still a couple of yards away, and watched the tip of the cigarette redden to the flame of the match. Rosamund’s strong white hands were perfectly steady. She blew out her first mouthful of smoke before she spoke.

  “Wanderer returned?” she said.

  “No,” said Nan.

  Rosamund drew at her cigarette.

  “He’s not here. Did you think he was?”

  Nan said, “No,” again in the same quiet voice.

  Rosamund laughed.

  “I haven’t seen him, and I haven’t got him here. And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll stop hunting round after him. Good Lord, my dear! This is the twentieth century, and a man does occasionally go away for twenty-four hours without taking his whole family with him!” She tilted back her head and blew a passable smoke-ring. “Jervis has always been an erratic creature—if he thinks of a thing he likes to do it at once.”

  “Yes,” said Nan—“Ferdinand said that too.”

  “It’s bound to be true if Ferdinand said it!” Her voice was insolent. Then suddenly she curbed it. “I know Jervis pretty well, and if you want my advice—which I don’t suppose you do—I should say let sleeping dogs lie.” She paused, blew another and a better smoke-ring, and added with drawling emphasis. “Every time.”

  She had remained standing. A long window let in a brilliant panel of sunshine which slanted to her feet. Nan was standing too. She came a little nearer and said,

  “Do you know where Jervis is?”

  Rosamund’s beautiful eyebrows rose.

  “That’s a little crude, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Nan. “I’m not worrying about being crude—I’m worrying about Jervis. If he’s all right, he may be anywhere he likes, and he may be with anyone he likes. If you know where he is, will you tell me?”

  “I’ve told you that I don’t know.”

  “Yes,” said Nan. “But you keep hinting that you do. I should be very glad if you would stop hinting and say what you mean.”

  Rosamund gave a short laugh.

  “I don’t mean anything. If I’m to be quite candid, I think you’re making a damned fuss. Men will go off on their own—and, knowing Jervis, I should say there’ll be the devil to pay when he finds out that you’ve been sending the town-crier round after him.”

  “Yes,” said Nan. She fixed her steady eyes on Rosamund. “You say men go off—but do they generally go in the middle of the night without any luggage?”

  Something odd happened; but it happened so quickly that it would have been difficult to swear to. Nan had only an impression that Rosamund had begun to say something, and that before the words reached her lips the cigarette which she was holding slipped sideways so that the red-hot tip burnt her finger. It was just an impression.

  The cigarette slipped, and Rosamund said, “Damn!”

  Nan thought that she had been going to say something else. She didn’t say it. She tossed the cigarette out of the open window and began to light another.

  “Didn’t he take any luggage?” she said. Then she went on without waiting for an answer. “That doesn’t mean very much—does it?”

  Nan said, “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want me to dot the ‘i’s? I don’t mind if you don’t.”

  “I would like you to say what you mean.”

  Rosamund laughed again.

  “Perhaps he picked up what he wanted at Carrington Square.”

  “No,” said Nan.

  “You’ve been ringing them up?”

  “Yes,” said Nan.

  Rosamund blew another smoke-ring.

  “Well—they’re Jervis’ servants,” she said.

  Nan let that go.

  Rosamund walked to the window. The movement brought her into the full sunlight. She turned. Her hair shone in the sun like bright, pale gold; her eyes were sharply blue.

  “There is an alternative of course. If a man pays the rent of a flat, he very often keeps some things there.”

  “You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of Jervis,” said Nan.

  Rosamund shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t expect him to be a plaster saint. If you do, I’m afraid you’re going to get a good many jolts. If I had married him, I should have been quite philosophical about that sort of thing—but of course I never pretended to be in love with him.” The stress on the “I” was of the slightest, but it was there.

  Nan’s colour rose a little. She kept her voice quiet.

  “You are trying to make me believe something that you don’t believe yourself.
I’m wondering why.”

  The ash fell from Rosamund’s cigarette. It made a dusty patch on the fine primrose linen of her dress. With an abrupt movement she turned and dropped the stub on to the gravel below the window. With a still more abrupt movement she turned back again.

  “Would you rather believe that he was drowned?”

  The colour in Nan’s cheeks drained away. Her voice did not change.

  “It’s not a question of what either of us would rather believe—it’s a question of the facts. I want to know what is true.”

  Rosamund stood with her hands behind her. They held the jamb of the window. She leaned back upon them.

  “You’re very detached,” she said. “Well, then, here are your facts. Twice this summer, whilst we were bathing together, Jervis had cramp pretty badly. The last time I had to help him in. I don’t think he’d have got in if he’d been alone. Well—you would have it you know.”

  A little more colour ebbed away. Nan said,

  “Is that true?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then the servants would know about it.”

  “If you think Jervis would be likely to go round telling people that sort of thing—”

  “Did you tell anyone about it?”

  “Why should I? I didn’t particularly want to make Jervis wild with me just then.”

  “I see. Then nobody knew about this cramp but you?”

  “And Jervis,” said Rosamund.

  “Yes, of course. Jervis would know if he had had cramp,” said Nan.

  She watched Rosamund’s face, but it showed nothing. The sun dazzled behind her.

  “You can’t tell me anything else?”

  “I’m afraid not. Ring me up if you hear anything.”

  “Yes,” said Nan. “I’ll ring you up when he gets back.”

  She said, “Good-bye, Rosamund,” and turned and walked out of the room.

  XXXIII

  “Well?” said Ferdinand Fazackerley as they turned out of the Tetterleys’ gate.

  “I don’t know,” said Nan, “Don’t talk to me for a little.”

  They drove in silence along the cliff road. It was very hot, but there was a breeze from the sea. When they turned inland, they lost it.