Nothing Venture

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Why did you marry me, Nan?” said Jervis.

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I thought …… Why did you?”

  Nan trembled. His arm was cold and stiff, but it held her close.

  “I loved you so much.”

  “Then? You loved me then?”

  “Of course!”

  “Why?”

  “I loved you when I was a little girl. I loved you so much that it used to hurt. And I never forgot. I used to dream about you. I never thought I should see you again. And the first time you came into Mr Page’s office I thought I was asleep, and that I should wake up and find that you weren’t there at all.” Her voice was sweetly shaken with laughter.

  “Oh, Nan!”

  “Yes. And then when you came in that day and said that Rosamund had thrown you over, the door was a little bit open into Mr Page’s room, and I listened. You said dreadful things, and I didn’t think I could bear it if you went away and married just anyone whom you could pick up like that—I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Nan—Nan! I’m not worth it. I’ve been a beast to you. But I do love you now.”

  “Better than Rosamund?” said Nan in a whisper.

  “I never loved Rosamund.”

  “Are you sure? She’s so beautiful.”

  “What’s that got to do with it? Of course I’m sure! I love you.”

  The cold wash of the water shook them.

  “Nan—” said Jervis. “You mustn’t stay here.”

  Nan pressed closer.

  “Nan—darling—you mustn’t. Go back up the passage. I may have to swim for it.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Darling, you must! You see, I shall be able to keep afloat all right, and then when the tide has turned—”

  “How high will it come?” said Nan.

  “Oh, not much higher.”

  “He said—there was more than an hour to high tide.”

  A sudden movement of the whole dark flood thrust Jervis hard against the bars and almost took Nan out of his arms. It dragged back and he was put to it to keep his feet.

  “You must go now,” he said. “Nan—if you love me.”

  “I can’t,” said Nan. “I’m not afraid if you hold me.”

  That surging lift of the tide came again. They clung together, and felt the bars between them strain with the force of the water. And then with the backward pull something hard whipped about Nan’s left ankle and clung there. She felt the sting of it, and in a flash of trembling hope she pulled herself free of Jervis and stooped down into the water, holding the bar with one hand. She had to go right under, to feel the cold weight of the sea upon her back, and the rushing saltiness against her lips, her ears, her eyes. The whole tide moved with her, and she had only her tired grasp of the bar to hold by.

  And then she felt the chain. Her fingers closed on it, and she came up laughing and crying, and thrust it into the beam of the torch for Jervis to see. Eighteen inches of bright chain, and a small bright key with the water dripping from it in bright drops like diamonds. As far as they were concerned, it was the key of the world.

  “He dropped it when he fell!” said Jervis. The words started with a shout, and ended in a gasp, because the water swirled up again, and the cold of it took his breath. He said, “Quick—quick!”—but they had both to hold on to the bars until the upward surge had spent itself.

  He held her then, and she found the padlock and felt for the keyhole. Her hands shook and were cold, and the key jammed. And then the water rose again. It came right up to her neck, and over her chin and against her mouth; but she held on to the padlock and the key, and Jervis held on to her. The bars of the gate cut into her as he strained her against them. Then, as the water lapsed again, the key turned and the padlock fell.

  At once the gate swung in with them, and so suddenly that they lost their footing. Nan was flung against the rock. Then Jervis had her by the arm and was striking out for the boulder. The forward rush of the water helped them. The passage rose to meet their stumbling feet. Drenched, panting, and exhausted, they came into water that was knee deep, ankle deep; and so, through splashing shallows, to the other side of the boulder, and a place where they could stand dry-shod and look back upon the danger out of which they had come. The faint glow of Nan’s abandoned torch just made the darkness visible. The beam would go on shining across the black lifting water until it drowned, or until the battery failed.

  They stood for what seemed like a long time, holding one another, looking back. Then Jervis said,

  “We’ve left the torch. What mugs! I believe I could get it.”

  Nan flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears. “No—no! I’ll never speak to you again if you do!”

  They went back up the passage with the light fainter and fainter behind them. There was no glow from the trap to guide them now. It seemed a long time before they came groping to the steps. Jervis pushed and strained at the trap, but he could not move it.

  He came down again.

  “We’ll have to wait till someone comes.”

  He felt Nan tremble against him.

  “Will anyone come?”

  “Bound to.” But in his heart he wondered.

  “Who?”

  “Oh—Rosamund—or Leonard. They’ve both been coming. I expect Leonard will want to make sure that I’m safely drowned.”

  Nan shivered. All at once she felt as if she didn’t care. She was too tired to care. They sat down on the steps. She shut her eyes and leaned against Jervis. Perhaps someone would come—perhaps no one would come—it didn’t really matter—

  XLII

  Rosamund Carew put the telephone back upon the table by the bed. She was surrounded by the soft pastel shades beloved of Mabel Tetterley. There was an old-rose canopy over her head, and an eiderdown of shot lavender and blue folded back from her feet; a pale blue blanket and a pale pink blanket showed beneath it. Rose and lavender curtains fell from the silver cornice to the pale grey floor. A pink veiled light filled the room with a rosy glow.

  Rosamund sat up straight against her pale blue pillows. She threw an oddly contemptuous glance about the room. Her own taste ran to something stronger. She pushed back the pink linen sheet, got out of bed, and went to the window that looked towards the sea. Hot as the night was, it had not been possible to keep it open. She stood and watched the wind shake it with gusts so strong that the whole room shook too, and even through the sound of the wind she could hear the roaring of the sea. She looked at the pink enamel clock on the mantel-piece. It was half past three. And it would be high tide at five. She turned away from the window with abrupt decision and dressed, putting on country shoes—a tweed skirt—a mackintosh. She covered her hair with a close tweed cap and got out of one of the dining-room windows.

  As far as the lodge, she had the shelter of a high bank of evergreens. She could hear the wind overhead with a sound like the flight of great airplanes passing. The noise deafened her. When she had passed the lodge, the full force of the storm caught her. Rosamund was a strong woman, but she could not keep her feet. There was a quarter of a mile of exposed road between the lodge and Old Foxy Fixon’s house, and for the most part of the way she was crawling on hands and knees.

  It was four o’clock before she made the house, and all the breath was out of her. She stood in the porch, a bare, half hollowed arch, and beat upon the door. The wind flung her into the passage, and flung the door back against the wall as Robert Leonard lifted the latch. It took both of them to get the door to again. There was a light in the office, a paraffin lamp with a white china shade. The steady yellow glow gave a curious impression of stillness. There is no light so still as lamp-light. It seemed to Rosamund as if the room was holding its breath. She struggled for her own. She needed all her composure for this interview with Robert.

  She stood just inside the door waiting. She had wondered whether he would be up, or whether her telephone call had roused him from sleep. She thought not;
he was dressed in his usual rather loose tweeds. Her eyes went beyond him, and saw a suit-case, half packed, standing on a chair. Then she struck through the angry expostulation which had been flowing past her.

  “Are you going away?”

  “If I choose,” said Robert Leonard.

  Rosamund straightened herself.

  “Why?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Where’s Jervis?”

  Leonard went over to the suit-case and closed it.

  “Not much of a night to travel.”

  “Why are you going?”

  “Best for you, and best for me. You’ll finish us both if I stay. It’s damnfool madness your coming here like this! The thing was as safe as houses if you’d kept out of it. As it is—” he shrugged his shoulders—“I’m off before you fit a rope round my neck.”

  “I said, where’s Jervis?” said Rosamund.

  “Where should he be?”

  “I’m going down to see.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  She put out her hand.

  “I want the key of the gate.”

  Robert Leonard laughed.

  “You’re a day after the fair!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I fancy you’d have to dive to find the padlock.”

  She stood quite still for a moment, and then turned to the door, but before she could reach it she was flung on one side.

  “Robert! How dare you?”

  Robert Leonard put his shoulders against the door and laughed.

  “Finito!” he said.

  “Robert!”

  “My dear Rosamund, you’re making a fool of yourself. The water’s well up to the roof of the cave by now, and all the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t get Jervis out of it.”

  “I’m going down.”

  “You’re not!”

  Rosamund walked to the telephone and took off the receiver.

  “Give me Croyston police station.” Then she covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Am I going down?”

  She looked into the mouth of Robert Leonard’s automatic only half a yard away.

  “Going to shoot me, Bob?” she said.

  “Not unless I’m obliged to.”

  Her eyes held his.

  “I’m worth something alive. I wonder how long I’d have to live if I weren’t.”

  “Come off it!” said Robert Leonard. “And come off trying to bluff me! That was bluff just now—you don’t get a Croyston operator as quick as all that in the middle of the night.”

  A faint thrumming came from the instrument. It throbbed against the palm of her hand. She pressed the palm closer.

  “Yes, that was bluff—but it won’t be this time. Am I going down? The operator’s there now all right, and he’ll hear if there’s any shooting.”

  Robert Leonard flung his pistol down on the table.

  “Hang up that damned receiver!” he said.

  Rosamund hung it up.

  “Now look here—I’ll tell you the whole bed-rock truth. I never thought of the high tide any more than you did. I was out to scare him. I thought he was just about ready to come across, and we wanted the money—didn’t we? Then you rang up and said your piece about the tide. Well, I wasn’t to know you were liable to get a crazy tide when there was a storm—was I? I did my best. I went down into that damn passage and found the whole place under water. I tried to get to the gate and unlock it. If you don’t believe me, go into the bedroom and look at the clothes I’ve just taken off—I’ve had to pitch them into the bath, or the water would be coming through the ceiling. I went in up to my neck—I couldn’t do more than that. I suppose you didn’t expect me to drown myself?”

  “No,” said Rosamund—just the one word, hard and cold. Then she put out her hand. “Give the key—I’m going down.”

  “I’m damned if you are!”

  She walked to the door, and met his outstretched arm.

  “Let me pass, Bob!”

  “Not much!”

  She struck him a stinging blow in the face, and at the same moment there came the sound of loud and heavy knocking upon the back door.

  Robert Leonard’s clenched fist was stayed in its descent.

  Rosamund set the hand with which she had struck him against his breast, holding him off.

  “Let me pass, or I’ll scream!”

  The knocking continued—hard, heavy knocking.

  “Who is it?” said Rosamund suddenly. The fight had gone out of her. Instead of holding him off she pressed against him.

  “I don’t know. They mustn’t see you.”

  And with that the knocking ceased.

  Leonard opened the door and stepped out into the passage; and as he did so, the wind blew in through the kitchen, and along with it came Bran, and separated from him by a short length of chain, Mr Ferdinand Fazackerley. They seemed to be in a hurry.

  Robert Leonard shut the door sharply behind him. He thought regretfully of the automatic on the office table.

  Bran pulled on his chain, growling, and Ferdinand said,

  “I guess I’ve no time to apologize. Your folk aren’t slick at answering doors, so we walked right in. We’re calling for Mrs Weare.”

  “For Mrs Weare?” said Leonard.

  “For Mrs Jervis Weare.”

  “I don’t understand. It’s Mr Fazackerley, isn’t it?”

  “Where is she?” said Ferdinand sharply.

  Robert Leonard made a gesture.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’d better have! I’m putting all my cards on the table. I got back from a wild goose chase an hour ago, and I found a note from Nan to say she was coming here to find Jervis. Well, I’ve come here to find both of ’em, and Bran’s come along to help me—so you can get a move on—I’m liable to get tired holding him.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Fazackerley.”

  Ferdinand lengthened the chain, and as Leonard jumped back, the great door ran snuffing up the passage. He passed the door through which Leonard had come, and pushed whining against the one opposite. Nan had stood behind it listening, but the room was empty now. Ferdinand with a quick movement flung open the other door, and was taken completely aback. Rosamund Carew was leaning on the study table with her hands behind her, half sitting, half standing in an attitude of careless indifference. Ferdinand dropped Bran’s chain in his surprise.

  “Isn’t this a very early visit?” said Rosamund. “Hullo, Bran!”

  The dog wrinkled his brows, snuffed the air, and backed away from her outstretched hand.

  “Where’s Nan?” said Ferdinand.

  “Well—not here.”

  “She said she was coming here,” Ferdinand began; and then he saw Leonard’s pistol lying where he had thrown it across the dingy blotting-paper. He walked past Rosamund and pocketed it, then turned to see Bran with his nose to the ground.

  “Seek her, boy—seek her!” he said, and followed back to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to a door behind the dresser where Bran scratched and whined. All the light there was came from a guttering candle set down at random on one of the shelves.

  As they went down the steps into the cellar, Robert Leonard let himself out of the front door, and was at once beaten to his knees by the wind. He had to crawl thirty yards to reach the shelter of the garage. His suitcase lay forgotten in the office.

  Rosamund came down into the cellar with Fazackerley and Bran. If Jervis was dead, she had done with Robert—but he should have his chance to get clear.

  The cellar was full of strange shadows; they rushed downwards when Fazackerley lifted the candle and looked about him. Bran was sniffing and scraping at the trap. Ferdinand Fazackerley set down the candle on an up-turned packing-case. He was soaked and grimy, his face white beneath its freckles, and his red hair wildly rumpled.

  Suddenly Bran threw up his head and broke into a loud baying.


  Rosamund had a moment of pure terror. As vividly as if it were happening now, she saw Basher lifting the trap, and her head and Jervis close together, craning over the dark hole. She dug her nails into the palm of her hand, and the picture was gone. The trap was closed. The barrel that masked it cast a shadow that ran up the wall and wavered there.

  Ferdinand began to roll the barrel away, and as he did so, there came a knocking on the underside of the trap.

  Rosamund stood where she was, and saw the barrel and the shadow of the barrel move together. She saw Ferdinand take hold of the iron ring that had been under the barrel and heave. She saw the trap rise, and Bran’s great head thrust forward. He whined frantically. And then she saw Jervis coming up out of the trap, and her heart stood still and her bones turned to water. He came up out of the dark. The faint candle-light showed his drenched hair, and his ghastly pallor, and his eyes set and staring. A drowned man might look like that. Then he came up higher, and she saw Nan’s face against his shoulder deathly white. Her eyes were closed, and her lips a little parted. She looked most piteously young.

  Jervis took a step forward and then stopped, and there was a sudden dead silence.

  Then, as Ferdinand Fazackerley reached for her wrist, Nan opened her eyes and looked all about her like a child waking in a strange place. Her gaze passed Rosamund and rested on Ferdinand.

  “Did you—find us?”

  “Bran found you.”

  Jervis set her down, and she stood leaning against him with a hand on Bran’s head. Rosamund might not have been there at all.

  “Where’s Leonard?” said Jervis harshly.

  Ferdinand exclaimed and ran up the cellar stairs. The front door stood open, and the wind blew through the house. The light of a stormy dawn came with it. As he crossed the threshold, he saw Robert Leonard’s car go labouring through the gate. And with that there fell a lull. He started to run after the car with a hand on the pistol in his pocket and Jervis coming up behind him. The car, still running heavily, began to take the steep descent.

  Jervis was running with a long shaky stride and heaving panting breath. They came to the top of the hill, and saw the car below them gathering speed. The wind had shifted a point and blew past them down the hill. Jervis stopped, gasping for breath, and caught at Ferdinand’s arm. They might as well have hoped to catch the wind as to catch the car with the gale behind it.