Down Under

by Patricia Wentworth

  The ground rocked under Oliver’s feet. Fanny had said she was safe—but what had they done to her to make her look like this? He said her name in a voice which sounded strangely in his own ears.

  “Rose Anne—”

  Rose Anne said, “Yes?” She turned her eyes upon him and looked at him as sweetly and indifferently as a child might look at a stranger.

  “Rose Anne—” He came forward, and would have taken her hand, but she went back a step.

  Philip Rennard laughed.

  “We’re in the same boat, you see. She doesn’t like me to touch her either. She doesn’t like being touched—do you, my lovely Rose?”

  And like an echo Rose Anne said, “I don’t like being touched, do I?”

  Oliver stood where he was. He heard Fanny catch her breath. He said,

  “Don’t you know me, Rose Anne?”

  She gave him a clear, blank look.

  “Oh, yes—you are Oliver.”

  In his mocking voice Philip said,

  “And isn’t it kind of Oliver to come and see you? He’s taken a great deal of trouble about it, you know. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

  Rose Anne said, “It’s very kind of you, Oliver. Thank you very much.”

  She wasn’t there at all, not his Rose Anne. This was a simulacrum, an empty echo. There was no life or breath. It wasn’t Rose Anne at all. No use to touch her, not under Philip Rennard’s eyes—to see her shrink away and hear him laugh. It was no good, and it hurt too much.

  Philip Rennard came and stood beside her.

  “Come, Rose, you’re disappointing Captain Loddon. I’m afraid he expected a warmer welcome. It’s a pity to have come so far and risked so much, and then be disappointed in the end—isn’t it? This is Captain Oliver Loddon, you know, and if I hadn’t run off with you, you would be Mrs Oliver Loddon by now, and so I think he expects you to say something a little more—effusive.”

  She turned her head and looked at him with a faintly puzzled air.

  “I did say, ‘Thank you very much.’”

  “Perhaps he thought you would be pleased to see him.”

  She turned back.

  “I’m very pleased to see you.”

  It was quite heart-breaking. Her words were like wind blowing through an empty room. There was nothing there but an empty blowing wind. She said what was put into her mouth to say, and it meant nothing at all.

  Fanny Rennard broke in.

  “What do you want to torment her for? I won’t have it, Philip! Why can’t you leave her alone? Anyone can see she isn’t herself, poor lamb. Why can’t you let her be?”

  “Am I tormenting you, Rose?” said Philip.

  She was a yard away, and he made no movement to come nearer, but his eyes dwelt on her and his voice caressed her. She said,

  “No, Philip.”

  “There, Fanny—you see! I don’t torment her—I’m very kind to her. Don’t you think I’m very kind to you, Rose?”

  She echoed him again—“Very kind.”

  “You’re very fond of me?”

  She echoed that too—“Fond of you.”

  “Well then, what about a kiss? Or are you still not liking to be touched?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t like being touched.”

  He laughed. It was not a merry sound.

  “You’re very fond of me. Well then, what about Captain Oliver Loddon? Are you fond of him too? I expect he’d like to know.”

  “I’m very fond of him,” said Rose Anne in the voice of a docile child.

  “Perhaps you’d like to kiss him. Would you, Rose?”

  She went back a step.

  “I don’t like being touched.”

  That ended the intolerable scene. Philip Rennard pulled the curtain back with a jerk and opened the door.

  “All right, my lovely Rose, you needn’t be afraid—he shan’t touch you. Fanny, take her back to her room! Tell Marie she’s not to be left—not for a moment!” He went out with them, but turned on the threshold to say, “You see, we take good care of her here, Loddon. Nobody has any chance of annoying her.”

  CHAPTER XX

  The door was locked upon him. He had started towards it, but checked at the sound of the key in the lock. He went back to sit on the edge of the couch with his head in his hands. His head ached and his heart too. He had found Rose Anne, and she was more lost to him than in his most despairing dreams, because in the very worst of them there had never been a moment when she had not cried out for him, as he cried out for her—with all his body and soul, with every impulse, every purpose, every thought. He was left to a sense of frustration past bearing. What had they done to her to drain her of her lovely life, her living intelligence, her quick responsive love? It was as if he had seen her bled to death—under Philip Rennard’s eyes.

  He had a moment of fierce and primitive regret. The fellow had been within reach of him. He might have had him by the throat and stopped that mocking breath. He might have choked him dumb, and battered that film-star face of his to a pulp.

  That was folly. Even if he hadn’t still been giddy from the blow on his head, he had no more chance of getting Rose Anne away than he had of flying. They might be any distance from the place where he had been knocked out, and even if they were on the very spot, he could not have forced her to the ascent. He heard her say again in that gentle voice, “I don’t like being touched, do I?”

  He had never suffered as he did now. To have found her, and to have found her like this. It was unbearable, and yet it had to be borne. For a time he could not think. He could only set himself to endure.

  He looked up when Fanny came in, and said,

  “What have they done to her? For God’s sake tell me!”

  She dropped the green curtains over the door and came to him.

  “It’s not what you think. No one has hurt her—no one has laid a finger on her. It isn’t that. It’s—it’s—well, when they bring anyone down under they give them some stuff to—to keep them quiet.”

  The strain relaxed.

  “You mean they’ve drugged her? You’re sure—it’s only that?”

  Fanny looked away.

  “Oh, Captain Loddon, I don’t know. None of them know. You see, they gave her the stuff—to keep her quiet, and then Philip told them to stop it, but it didn’t go off, not like it does as a rule.”

  “You mean the effect didn’t go off?”

  She nodded.

  “It ought to go off in a few hours, and it’s days since she had any. Philip stopped it. He’s in love with her—really and truly in love, I mean. He doesn’t want her like she is now. He wants her like she was, and he wants to make her in love with him, and to have her come to him because she wants to come. And now he’s got you here, what he’d like best of all is to cut you out and have her choose him of her own free will.”

  Oliver threw up his head and laughed, while Fanny stared at him.

  “Oh, Captain Loddon, don’t!” She came closer, and said in a hurrying whisper, “You don’t know—how dangerous it is—for you. He meant to kill you right away—only then he thought of this, and he’d rather—he’d rather have you alive and see her in love with him and marrying him, and you out in the cold.”

  Oliver laughed again and said,

  “I’d take my chance of that, Fanny. He’s got a bit of wind in the head, hasn’t he, your Mr Philip Rennard?”

  “Oh, don’t!” said Fanny again. “You don’t know Philip or you wouldn’t talk like that. He’s always had everything he wants. Uncle won’t cross him, and there isn’t anyone else who can. Mark’s too fond of him—”

  “And who’s Mark?” said Oliver.

  He got rather a shrewd look from Fanny.

  “You know such a lot, I reckoned you’d know that too. Uncle’s got two sons—”

  “And Mark’s the other one?” said Oliver.

  She nodded.

  “He’s the eldest—Uncle’s right hand. He doesn’t ma
ke a show like Philip, but he runs all the outside business—there’s a lot of it. And Mark’s not a bad sort, but he won’t put out a finger to hinder Philip—none of them will—so if you don’t watch your own step, no one’s going to do it for you.”

  “I see—” said Oliver.

  “You’d better,” said Fanny in her earnest whisper. “Better get it right into your head and keep it there. There’s no law down under except what Uncle makes and what Philip chooses. Anything he does is good enough law. If he was to walk into this room this very minute and shoot you dead, nobody wouldn’t take any notice except to see that you was cremated and to get the stain out of my carpet.” She began to cry again. “It sounds awful, but it can’t sound a bit more awful than what it is. The only thing that’s keeping you alive this minute is what I told you. The way Philip’s made, he’d rather get Miss Rose Anne away from you when you were alive than when you were dead. He’s proud and he’s cruel, and he wants you to see her turn her back and come to him and marry him as if she liked doing it—and he’s quite sure he can make her.”

  “All right,” said Oliver—“let him try.”

  “He can’t,” said Fanny—“not with her like she is, poor lamb. She’s just like that all the time—says yes when you say yes, and no when you say no. It just makes your heart ache. But I’ll tell you something. He wasn’t sure about her till just now, and that’s why he brought her in on you like that. He thought maybe she was putting it on, so he brought her in and watched to see how she’d take it.”

  “And what does he think now?” said Oliver. Something stirred in him. Was it hope?

  “I don’t know,” said Fanny in a dejected voice. “Philip doesn’t let on. I think he’ll wait. The doctor goes on saying she’s so highly strung and you never can tell how it’ll take people like that.”

  “The doctor?” He caught up the word.

  She gave a little angry laugh.

  “Oh, yes, we’ve got a doctor, and a parson, and what you might call every modern convenience. If Uncle wants anyone, he has them fetched down under, and one of the first things he did was to get his own doctor. Spenlow’s the name—Doctor Harold Spenlow. And Uncle says he ought to be happy, because he’s got the finest laboratory that money can fit out and no one to interfere with him. And he fetched the parson he wanted, the Reverend Luke Simpson. He says he ought to be happy too, because it’s a parson’s business to preach against sin, and there’s plenty down here to keep him happy.”

  “I’d like to meet Uncle,” said Oliver drily.

  Fanny gave an angry little laugh that was half a sob.

  “I shouldn’t worry—you’ll meet him all right. He always sees everyone new, and if you want to please him, you’ll tell him he’s not forgotten up there. There’s a straight tip for you. And you needn’t be afraid to pile it on—he’ll swallow anything. Why, he was as pleased as Punch for weeks when someone put him in a book of famous trials the other day. That’s the only thing that worries him about being down under—he can’t get up on his hind legs and tell everyone how clever he’s been, which is what he’d like. So he always has the new ones up one at a time and brags about it—” She broke off suddenly, ran to the door, and looked out, holding the green curtain up in a loop over the shining red of her hair. Then she came back again and said more soberly. “Do everything you can to please him, Captain Loddon. It might make a lot of difference.” She went away after that, and he was alone again.

  He found three doors, and found them locked. He found out why the walls were hung with curtains. Stone is cold comfort to live with, and the room he was in had been cut out of solid limestone. There were no windows, but he discovered a ventilating shaft with a grating fixed across it. One of the doors opened upon a gallery. He had caught a glimpse of it when Philip Rennard held the curtain back, and when Fanny looked out just now. The other doors were in the two side walls.

  He looked at his watch, and found that it was eight o’clock. There was a good sized lump on the back of his head, and he could have done with something to drink. The air was hot, and his mouth dry and parched. He wished he had thought of asking Fanny for some water.

  It was nearly nine o’clock before she came back—out of breath as if she had been running.

  “He wants to see you now.”

  “Who does?”

  “Uncle. He’s sent for you. Oh, Captain Loddon, you’ll be careful, won’t you?” And with that there came in Ernie Rennard and a man with a dark, clever face and restless eyes.

  “Dr Spenlow,” said Fanny—“and Ernie, my husband, you know. They’ll take you along.”

  Dr Spenlow gave a crooked smile.

  “We have all to do as we are told down under. It will save you a lot of trouble if you get hold of that right away.”

  Spenlow—Dr Harold Spenlow—Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith in his book-lined study talking about unaccountable disappearances—the Reverend Luke Simpson for one, and Dr Harold Spenlow for another.… Well, here was the man himself—eight years later. What would eight years down under do to a rising young specialist? Oliver, walking along a lighted gallery beside him, glanced sideways once or twice and thought, “He hasn’t gone to seed, and he hasn’t got used to it. I should look out for him if I were Amos Rennard.” Then, with a feeling of repugnance, he remembered that it was this man who had drugged Rose Anne. He said on the impulse,

  “I’ve seen Miss Carew. Why is she—like that? What have you given her?”

  Dr Spenlow’s eyebrows lifted, making him look a good deal like Mephistopheles.

  “Well, you don’t lose much time, do you? Do you expect me to give my professional secrets away?”

  “What did you give her?” said Oliver in such a tone of fury that Ernest Rennard walking ahead of them swung about and said uneasily,

  “Now, Captain Loddon, it’s no good talking like that, and it won’t do Miss Rose Anne any good either.”

  “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” said Dr Spenlow in his mocking voice, “and she’s a pretty creature, but there’s really no need for you to get yourself into trouble by murdering me. Quite natural you should feel an urge that way, but better not to indulge it. Don’t you agree, Ernie?”

  Ernie’s pleasant face wore a frown of disapproval.

  “There’s no call for anything of the sort,” he said. “And I’m sure Captain Loddon’s too sensible to think of any such thing, and you ought to know better than to bait him, Doctor. Why can’t you set his mind at rest and tell him Miss Rose Anne’s all right.”

  “Perhaps my professional conscience won’t let me. Perhaps I’m not sure whether she’s all right or not, Mr Ernest Rennard.” His glance raked Oliver as he spoke.

  Oliver thought, “Damn him, he doesn’t know whether I’ve heard the name before. He wants to know.” He could trust himself with his temper now. If he was to get Rose Anne away, he must ride it on the curb. He said,

  “Would you mind telling me just what you mean by that?”

  There was a flicker of something in the dark, restless eyes. The voice lost some of its mocking tone.

  “I don’t mind in the least. Mr Amos Rennard is a very humane person and the soul of hospitality. He likes to feel that his guests are enjoying themselves. If there is any doubt about it, he enlists my professional assistance.”

  “You mean he gets you to drug them?”

  Ernie looked over his shoulder and said,

  “Give over, the both of you! What’s the sense of talking like that?”

  Dr Spenlow laughed as if he were amused.

  “You stick to your last, Ernie. You’re a first-class mechanic, and I’m not—I shouldn’t dream of interfering with you.”

  “What have you done to Miss Carew?” said Oliver.

  Dr Spenlow shrugged his shoulders.

  “Nothing to make you want my blood. As I told you, I assist new-comers to settle down here by giving them small doses of a drug which is my own secret. The usual dose for a man is two grains, and for
a woman one and a half. Miss Carew has had two half grain doses. The effect should have been very slight at any time, and it should certainly have worn off in a very few hours. She had the last of her two doses a week ago. I am therefore quite at a loss to understand her present condition, but I do not really think it should cause you any anxiety. She seems quite happy.” He said these words with a curious drawling inflection, then added with considerable briskness, “It doesn’t suit Philip’s book, of course, but you don’t have to worry about that.”

  Ernest Rennard fell back and pushed his big shoulders between them.

  “Look here,” he said, “I won’t have it, and that’s all there is about it. You shut up, or I’ll shut you up! Captain Loddon’s got one bump on his head, and I shouldn’t think he’d want another. As for you, Doctor—”

  “Oh, I don’t want one either,” said Spenlow laughing. “All right, Ernie, we’ll change the subject. What shall it be? There’s no weather to talk about—your politics are dangerous. I can think of nothing but the story of our lives. I’m sure Captain Loddon would be interested to hear how Fanny lured me here.”

  A brick-red flush spread upwards from Ernie’s neck. His large ears glowed with it. He looked very angry indeed.

  “That’s something you’ve got to take back, Doctor. You know as well as I do that Fanny hadn’t the least idea what was going to happen. She was only a child, and she did what she was told, and they didn’t ought to have made her do it.”

  “Very sad,” said Spenlow—“and bad, I quite agree. And if I hadn’t been a fool, it wouldn’t have happened.” He turned to Oliver. “I’d gone down to Sunningdale for a round of golf with a fellow called Paton. We played, we lunched, we yarned, and at four-fifteen I drove him to Virginia Water station. It was just about dark when I came away. I put my headlights on, and there was Fanny in the middle of the road, a vision of loveliness, with her arms out and her hair a regular blaze. Well, I stopped, which I was bound to do—I could hardly run her down in cold blood—and I got out, which I needn’t have done, and the next thing I knew I was down here with a buzzing head and a hearty smell of chloroform hanging around. They must have fairly deluged me with it, and a bit of luck for them that I survived. One of Philip’s early efforts—quite well planned, but carried out in a grossly clumsy manner. I believe Fanny cried her eyes out after seeing my corpse borne away.”