Nothing Venture

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Yes?”

  “Or else you’re washed ashore somewhere along the coast—the current sets round Croyde Head, doesn’t it?—and there has been another unfortunate bathing fatality. Rosamund will remember your having cramp once or twice this summer when you were bathing together.”

  Jervis said things. They may or may not have got through Robert Leonard’s skin; they certainly relieved Jervis. Leonard’s voice did not sound as if he had been touched. He said,

  “None of that’s business! We’re supposed to be talking business.”

  “Do you think I carry thirty thousand pounds in my pockets?”

  “No—and I don’t expect to cash a cheque for thirty thousand across the counter either. You can stand ready for bouquets. We’re prepared to take your word—and I call that a really handsome compliment. Rosamund says she’s never known you go back on your word in your life, and she’s prepared to go bail that you’ll ante up and hold your tongue. So you see, that makes the whole thing perfectly simple. You give your word—I drive you over to the junction—you put up any story you like to account for your absence—and not later than tomorrow you buzz up to town and tell old Page you’ve decided to settle thirty thousand on Rosamund. It’s as easy as falling off a log.”

  Jervis leaned against the rock. He was thinking hard. It had been in his mind that when the tide rose he could hold on to the iron bars of the portcullis which divided the inner and outer caves. If the portcullis didn’t reach to the roof, he might get over it when the water was high enough; and, once in the outer cave, he would have a pretty good chance of getting away when the tide went down. He could float for hours in this warm water with the bars to hold on to. He reckoned that the water would be up to his waist in half hour or so. He might have to hold on for five or six hours. Well, he ought to be able to do that.

  “Thinking it over?” said Robert Leonard. “You’ve not got too much time. Better speed up the thinking machine!”

  He picked up the torch again and sent the beam glittering down upon the pool. There wasn’t a pool any longer; there was one smooth blackness of water—and the edge of it was level with the rock on which Jervis stood. The light shifted and showed that smooth blackness everywhere. It came back again and rested upon the edge of the rock a yard away from his feet. It showed the water and the rock in a silver ring; and as Jervis looked at the ring, the water lifted very gently and flowed over the rock. The beam swung upwards, and the torch was set down again.

  The light had never touched the portcullis. Did those bars go up to the roof—or didn’t they?

  “Well, are you going to come to terms?” said Robert Leonard.

  Jervis said. “No,” almost absently. His mind was on the portcullis and the question of whether it would be possible to get over it and into the outer cave. He could do it if there was a space. But was there a space? He became aware that Leonard was swearing at him.

  “Do you mean that ‘No,’ you fool?”

  “Oh yes.”

  If being absent and a bit dreamy was the way to annoy Leonard, then Jervis was prepared to go on being dreamy till all was blue. It was less of a fag than letting oneself go—easier—easier—too easy.…. He found himself on his hands and knees in an inch or two of water. He must have turned giddy. Leonard’s voice echoed above him in the dark.

  “All right—you’ve had your chance. If you won’t take it, that lets me out. You’ve only to stay obstinate, and I scoop the lot. Drown, and be damned to you!”

  The gate at the mouth of the passage banged with a violent metallic sound that filled the cave with clanging echoes.

  Jervis sat in two inches of water, and waited for the noise to stop.

  XXXVII

  The water was up to his waist. He wasn’t giddy now. He made his way to the portcullis. It would be quite easy to hold on to the bars. As a matter of fact, he would not need to be in the water for as long as he had reckoned. The tilted boulder which he had not been able to climb would be accessible now; only he must be careful not to lose himself—he must be able to get back to the portcullis again.

  He floated himself off in the direction of where he thought the boulder must be, but did not succeed in getting on to it. When the water was up to his shoulder, he tried again, got a foothold, and was able to climb right out of the water on to a ledge with a back to it. He remembered that the boulder met the wall of the cave. He leaned against the rock, and began to wonder what happened to the air when the sea came into a cave like this. It seemed as if one of three things must happen.

  Either the water must drive the air out—but could it, with the mouth of the cave submerged, and the air higher than the water?

  Or,

  The air would keep the water out.

  Or,

  The air would become frightfully compressed.

  None of these things seemed to be happening. The air felt quite normal. Of course there were probably fissures in the roof, and the passage would help. There were odd holes and fissures all along these cliffs; it made them dangerous at night. He decided that he was in no danger of asphyxiating.

  He fell into a curious fitful sleep, and dreamt that he was fishing in the black pool; and first his line brought up a keg of brandy, and then a huge and heavy sack which was full of ingots of gold. He couldn’t get it off the hook, and Basher lifted it off with one hand, threw it over his shoulder, and began to climb up the front of Westminster Abbey with the sack and the keg hanging from his shoulders like milk-pails on a yoke. He cast into the water again, and up came Rosamund, drowned, with a long yellow plait. He laid her down on the rock, and she opened her eyes and said, “Thirty thousand pounds.” Then he cast again, and brought up Nan, in her night-gown, with the tears running down her face. And when he saw Nan cry, something hurt him terribly. It was past all bearing, and he took her in his arms and tried to kiss the tears away; but when he touched her she was cold as ice, cold as water; and like water she slipped from his arms and was gone.

  He woke to the touch of water at his breast. The tide was up to his armpits and rising still. He let himself down into it and swam back to the portcullis.

  He was feeling much better; the dreamy drowsiness had passed, and his head was clear. He was horribly thirsty, but he felt pretty sure of being able to stick it out till the tide went down—only he must get over the portcullis and into the outer cave.

  After a bit he pulled himself along the bars to the side of the cave. His wet clothes impeded him, and he called himself a fool for not having stripped. He might have been able to make a bundle of his things and wedge them between the bars of the portcullis above high water level. However, it was too late now. He managed to scramble up the face of the rock with the help of the nearest bar. No way over here, or for as far as he could reach outwards. The bars ran slap up to the roof of the cave. He pulled himself across and tried the other side with no better luck; but he came on quite a decent foothold, and stayed there leaning against the bars for what seemed like a long time.

  There was just a chance that whilst the bars ran straight across, the roof might rise in the middle. When the water was high enough, he crossed again, reaching upwards. There was not very far to reach now. He could touch the roof all the way across. The bars met it inexorably. Old Foxy Fixon had set his portcullis cunningly enough, at a point where the roof came down to meet it. There was no way out on the seaward side.

  A cold, dogged courage came up in Jervis. He hadn’t really hoped that he would be able to get over the bars into the outer cave. He put the whole thing away, and decided to make for the ledge on to which the passage opened. He ought to be able to make it pretty soon now, and it would certainly be above high water mark. As to what would happen next, it was always on the cards that Leonard might come along the passage and open the gate carelessly, in which case he would find himself floored. Jervis’ fancy dwelt fondly on the thought of getting a grip of Leonard’s ankles. The passage would make hard falling.

  Well, he had to find th
e ledge first, and it wasn’t going to be any too easy. The water must be still three or four feet below it. On the other hand, he thought he could find the tilted boulder. Most of it would be under water by now; but if he could identify it, it would give him the direction of the ledge. As it turned out, he found the ledge without difficulty. But it was another matter to haul himself up on it. The sill of rock was a couple of feet above water level, and beneath it, and upon either side, the wall was as smooth and as slippery as ice. He could never have climbed to the ledge if he had not chanced on the ring. It was away to one side of the sill. He had pulled himself up a dozen times, only to be dragged back by the weight of his drenched clothes and his own tired limbs, when his desperate fingers closed upon it. It was of iron, heavily rusted, and had doubtless served to secure the rope used for hauling in Old Foxy’s kegs. It was a god-send to Jervis.

  Straining and panting, he got a knee on the sill and fell forward.

  XXXVIII

  Rosamund Carew walked into Old Foxy Fixon’s house and called, “Robert!” She left the hall door open behind her and stood in the narrow hall.

  “Robert!”

  Robert Leonard opened the door on the right and frowned at her.

  “Why have you come here?” he said.

  “What an affectionate cousin you are!”

  “Cousin?”

  “Cousin,” said Rosamund firmly. “And, officially, I’m here to fetch eggs. Mabel’s hens are on strike, so I’ve got a perfectly good excuse for coming.”

  She walked past him into the ugly square room, shut the door on them both, and asked quickly,

  “Has that old woman of yours gone?”

  “Yes—she goes at three, when she’s washed up.”

  “Sure she’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Robert, where is he? What has happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened,” said Robert Leonard.

  “D’you mean he won’t?”

  “He’s a damned obstinate fool.”

  “You must give him time. You didn’t imagine he’d give away at once, did you?”

  Robert Leonard set his jaw and made no answer.

  “I could have told you he wouldn’t,” said Rosamund. “And I never thought he’d do it for you either. That’s why I’ve come. I want to see him.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “Oh, I’m going to. I can do a lot more with Jervis than you’ve the least chance of doing.”

  “No names!” said Leonard quickly.

  Rosamund regarded him with a touch of scorn.

  “I thought your old woman had gone.”

  “So she has.”

  “Then who is there to listen?”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “No one, I hope.”

  “Old Foxy Fixon?” said Rosamund. “Now look here, Bob—I’ve got to see him. I bet you anything you like you’ve got him on the high horse, and he’s ready to see you somewhere before he gives you a penny. You’ve probably been blowing hot air at each other—and we shan’t get our thirty thousand that way. Now, I shall play up the horrible scandal, and isn’t it better to pay than to wash all the family linen in public. Jervis mayn’t be in love with me, but you can bank on it that he won’t send me to jail.”

  “Oh, hold your tongue!” said Robert Leonard angrily.

  “A bit nervous this morning, aren’t you?” said Rosamund. “Well anyway, that’s my line, and I want a chance of trying it. Thirty thousand’s worth having.”

  “Eighty thousand’s better—to say nothing of King’s Weare.”

  “What d’you mean by that?” said Rosamund sharply.

  The room was bare and hideous. It contained a battered office table and a couple of dilapidated chairs. Leonard stood by the table, his head thrust forward, his overhanging brow seeming to weight it. His eyes, small, hard, and deeply set, were on Rosamund’s face. She did not change colour, but she looked startled as she repeated her “What d’you mean by that?”

  “What should I mean?”

  “I don’t know. Where is he?”

  “Where do you suppose?”

  “I’m not supposing. I want to see him. You’re to take me to him. Is he in the passage?”

  Leonard watched her face.

  “No—he’s in the cave.”

  “The cave?” said Rosamund. She looked incredulous for a moment, and then horrified. “But the tide—doesn’t the tide come up into the cave?”

  “It does.”

  “Robert! What have you done?”

  “I? Absolutely nothing.”

  Rosamund took a step backwards.

  “Does the tide—come right up?”

  “I believe so.”

  She took another step backwards and touched the door.

  “What have you done?”

  Leonard jerked his head back.

  “I’ve done what I promised. I gave him the chance of paying up, and he wouldn’t take it. I can’t say I’m sorry. King’s Weare and eighty thousand is better than thirty thousand and the Argentine, with the off chance of Jervis doing the dirty on us.”

  Rosamund leaned hard upon the door.

  “If he’s dead, you’ll never touch a penny! I told you so! Not one penny, Robert!” She made a sudden movement forward. “When is it high tide?”

  “You mean when was it high tide, I suppose. It was high tide at ten minutes past eight this morning, and will be again at about a quarter past seven this evening.”

  “You left him in the cave?”

  He nodded casually.

  “Have you been down since?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m going down now.”

  Robert Leonard shrugged his shoulders. There would be a scene, and then she would come round. The sooner they got it over, the better. He followed her into the kitchen and down the cellar stairs, shifted the barrel from the trap-door, and raised the trap, all by the light of a candle stuck in a grease-stained kitchen candlestick.

  Rosamund looked at the damp brick steps.

  “I’m not going down there with that candle.”

  “I’m not really asking you to go down there at all,” said Robert Leonard as one who states a fact.

  “I’m going—but I want a good torch.”

  When she had it, she went down two or three steps, and then turned round.

  “Want me to come too?” said Leonard.

  “No. How much passage is there?”

  “From here to the cliff—and it slants.”

  She went down the remaining steps. He heard her stop for a moment at the foot and then walk away from him. The echoes of the place made a strange sound of her footfall.

  Jervis had been asleep. He could lie full length on the sill. He had taken his blazer off, passed the sleeves round one of the bars, and knotted them about the thick of his arm, so that if he turned in his sleep, he would not roll off the ledge. He slept, and woke to the sound of Rosamund’s footsteps. His throat and mouth were so dry that the waking was a cruel one. He listened for the sound that had waked him, and heard it come nearer. He scrambled up, unknotting the sleeves of his coat. If he could get his hands on Leonard, even through these bars …

  There was a light coming. The passage made a sharp turn immediately; in a brightening dusk he could see where it bent away to the left. He clenched and unclenched his hands to get the stiffness out of them, and saw Rosamund come round the turn, with the torch making a lighted pathway for her. She walked slowly. He could see the rosy linen of her dress. The beam made a bright panel on it. He drew away to the side of the sill and waited to see if she would open the gate; but she only flashed the light through it and called,

  “Jervis!”

  Jervis watched the beam go down into the dark. It showed the cave as he had seen it when Leonard spoke to him. The tide was down. The rocks ran moisture. The two dark pools caught the light. He shot out a hand and caught Rosamund by the w
rist as she leaned forward and called his name a second time. The name broke, only half said. He felt her stiffen and fall back. His grip tightened. She began to try to wrench herself free. He got her other wrist with his left hand and pulled her down on her knees. She kept her hold of the torch. She ceased to struggle. They were kneeling face to face with the bars of the gate between them.

  After a moment Rosamund laughed.

  “You needn’t hold me so fiercely! I’ve come on purpose to see you—I don’t want to get away. You’re thinking what a pity I’m not Robert.”

  Jervis’ grasp relaxed. He drew his hands back through the bars, and was humiliated to find that they were shaking. He wondered whether he would have been able to hold Robert Leonard for very long.

  Rosamund flashed the light on his face and exclaimed,

  “Are you all right?”

  “That—comes well—from you,” said Jervis. He spoke with difficulty, his voice hoarse and toneless.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m thirsty.”

  “Damn!” said Rosamund.

  The torch swung round in an erratic circle as she jumped up. Next moment she was round the bend. He could hear her running. The dusk went black.

  Robert Leonard heard sounds in the kitchen, and went in, to find Rosamund coming out of the larder with eggs in one hand and a jug of milk in the other. She had set a kettle boiling on the oil stove. She turned on him in a cold fury.

  “I didn’t say you were to starve him!”

  “Dead men don’t eat.”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “That’s bad luck. Won’t he drown?”

  “Look here, Robert, for two pence I’d ring up the police! You needn’t laugh—I mean it this time!”

  “May I ask what you’re doing?” said Leonard.

  “I’m going to feed him. Go upstairs and get me a blanket! He’s chilled to the bone. I suppose his clothes are soaked. I’m going to dry them, and I’m going to feed him—and if you try and stop me, I shall just ring up the police. I don’t mind taking the money, but you’re not going to torture him.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” said Leonard.