The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  This plan, though excellent, was banished from Elfrida’s mind when she returned to the house, for Mrs. Chowne was awaiting her with the news that Mr. Sandford was in Tavistock on business and had phoned to say they could expect him at tea-time and, if convenient, he would like to spend a couple of nights at Mountain Cross.

  “Mr. Sandford?” asked Elfrida in surprise.

  “Yes, Mr. Sandford himself,” replied Mrs. Chowne portentously. “I thought we’d put him in the blue room; he had it when he came here before. There’s a lot to be done so we’d better get on.”

  There was a lot to be done: the bed to be made and aired with an electric blanket; “a nice little dinner” to be planned (Mr. Sandford could not be expected to eat bread-and-butter pudding, however delectable) and a bottle of Mr. Ware’s claret to be fetched up from the cellar and put to warm gently by the fire.

  “Oh, dear, I wonder what he’s coming for,” said Mrs. Chowne as she trotted about, upstairs and down, like a circus pony. “Oh, dear, I hope he’s not going to say you can’t live here by yourself, Miss Elfrida. We’re getting along so nicely, aren’t we?”

  *

  12

  Mr. Sandford arrived in his large black Jaguar at four-thirty precisely. The car, which Elfrida knew so well, was driven by Mr. Sandford’s man who carried in a suitcase and a briefcase and then went off to the village to put up at the inn.

  Tea was ready in the parlour, so Elfrida and her guest sat down by the fire and chatted comfortably together. Mr. Sandford seemed different to-day, less formal and more friendly; he asked permission to use Elfrida’s Christian name, adding that he had known her mother.

  “You’re like her,” he said.

  “But Mother was beautiful when she was young,” objected Elfrida. “Everyone says so—and there’s that lovely portrait of her in Grandmother’s bedroom.”

  Mr. Sandford smiled. “All the same you’re very like her. It isn’t so much the physical resemblance—although that is much stronger now that you aren’t so tired and pale—it’s more your voice and—and the way you think. I find it difficult to explain.”

  “I expect it’s because we were so much together,” Elfrida replied in a low tone. “Mother was a wonderful person and she was everything to me . . . I was like a lost spirit when she died. It’s because of Mother that I want to live here; because this was her home and she loved it.”

  “I can see you’re determined to live here. Well, there’s no harm in trying it. Ronnie told me about the arrangement with the Chownes . . . do you think it will work?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s working splendidly. They’re very nice people.”

  “It’s early days—you haven’t been here long—but if you find it too lonely we can make some other plan.” He hesitated and then added, “It’s such a very different life from your chosen career on the stage.”

  “I didn’t choose the stage . . . I mean it just happened. Father was an actor so he was able to get small parts for me and I had to go on with it because there was nothing else for me to do. I had to do something.”

  “Do you mean you don’t like it?” asked Mr. Sandford in surprise.

  “Not really . . . and I knew I should never be any good. There’s no future in it for me.” She thought of Miss Martineau as she spoke and added, “If there’s no future in what you’re doing you should cut your losses and try another line.”

  Mr. Sandford nodded. “Well, you certainly don’t lack courage, Elfrida. You must do as you feel inclined, but I hope you will look upon me as a friend and let me know if you aren’t happy at Mountain Cross. I can see you don’t want to go back to the stage, but I could help you to find some other employment if necessary.”

  “Oh, how kind of you, Mr. Sandford!”

  “I dare say you were surprised to hear I was coming to-day, but the fact is I had to see a client in Tavistock so I thought I would kill two birds with one stone. I’ve got some papers for you to sign, relating to your change of name, and I want to speak to the Chownes about their pension which, as you know, was bequeathed to them by your grandmother . . . but all that could have been done by letter.”

  Elfrida looked at him inquiringly.

  “You remember you asked me about your mother’s cousin, Walter Whitgreave?” continued Mr. Sandford. “He has come over from Canada for a short visit and he called at the office to see me. Unfortunately I happened to be out, so he saw young Peter Riggs who hasn’t much gumption. I wish I’d seen Whitgreave myself.”

  “Is he coming here?” asked Elfrida apprehensively.

  “Yes, he is visiting his friends, the Bannisters, who live in Plymouth and intends to come over to Mountain Cross. He used to spend his holidays here when he was a boy. I told you that, didn’t I?”

  Elfrida nodded.

  “Now, it’s quite unnecessary for you to worry,” said Mr. Sandford soothingly. “I know you have an uncomfortable feeling that you’ve ‘done him out of Mountain Cross’ but, as I explained to you before, he was generously treated when he was young and, what’s more, if he had come over when his uncle was ill (as he should have done) the place would have been left to him.”

  This idea was alarming.

  “Big issues hang on small pegs,” added Mr. Sandford.

  “Yes,” agreed Elfrida. She added thoughtfully, “It’s rather frightening when you think of what might have happened if you had done something different. For instance if I hadn’t come to see you—and I nearly didn’t—I wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Or if you had seen one of the advertisements which I put in the paper last October you might have been here months ago.”

  “I thought of that, too,” admitted Elfrida in a low voice. “We both might have been here . . . and perhaps Mother would have got better.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Well, what about Walter Whitgreave?” asked Mr. Sandford.

  “Yes,” said Elfrida doubtfully. “Do you think I had better ask him——”

  “I was about to suggest that you should ring him up and ask him to lunch to-morrow. With your permission I shall stay and see him.”

  “Oh, yes, please stay! It would be such a help if you were here when he comes.”

  “That will suit me very well. I want to see Walter—or Walt as he calls himself nowadays—and I missed him in London.”

  “Walt? Oh, dear! And Walter is such a nice name.”

  Mr. Sandford nodded. If he had been of a younger generation he probably would have said he couldn’t agree more. He continued fretfully, “Peter Riggs omitted to make notes of his conversation with Whitgreave—which I consider very casual and unbusinesslike—and it wasn’t until I had questioned Peter closely that I got any information out of him. Then, but not till then, I discovered that Whitgreave was coming to this part of the country to stay with the Bannisters and intends to pay you a surprise visit.”

  “Oh, how glad I am that you warned me!”

  “Yes, it isn’t pleasant to be taken by surprise.”

  “Why is he coming? I mean what does he want?”

  “He told Peter Riggs that he was going to ask you for a small memento of his uncle.”

  “Oh, is that all!” exclaimed Elfrida in relief.

  “Will you be able to find something suitable?”

  Elfrida rose and, opening a drawer of the bureau which stood near the window, she produced a small leather box and handed it to Mr. Sandford. The box contained a gold watch and chain. “Ronnie and I found that when we were poking about,” she explained. “It’s a repeater—rather nice, isn’t it?—I expect it belonged to Grandfather.”

  “Yes, he always wore that watch; it’s the very thing, couldn’t be better!”

  “Will you ring up Mr. Whitgreave?” asked Elfrida. “It will be easier for you because you know him.”

  Mr. Sandford agreed and went off to the library to ring up Walt Whitgreave and arrange for him to come over from Plymouth to lunch on the following day.

  *

 
That night, when she had conducted Mr. Sandford to the blue room and made sure he had all he wanted, Elfrida set her alarm clock to waken her at seven. She had decided to go to church at eight, not only because she enjoyed the peace and quiet of the Early Communion Service but also because she could go without any fuss and she would be back in time to breakfast with her guest.

  This was in Elfrida’s mind as she went downstairs so she was surprised to see her guest in the hall. He, also, was surprised and paused with his hand on the key of the front-door.

  They greeted each other and walked down the avenue together.

  “What a lovely morning!” said Mr. Sandford happily.

  “Yes, lovely! And listen to the birds,” returned Elfrida.

  “We poor mortals who live in towns, miss a great deal of pleasure.”

  “Would you like to live in the country, Mr. Sandford?”

  “Not really,” he replied thoughtfully. “I enjoy my work—it’s interesting and rewarding—and I enjoy meeting my friends. I’m fond of golf and I like an occasional game of bridge . . . but I must say that a little more leisure would be pleasant. I should like to be able to get away for a holiday more often.”

  “You’re terribly busy.”

  “Yes, I’ve more work than I can manage, but when Ronnie has acquired the necessary experience he’ll be able to take a great deal of it off my shoulders. He’s a good boy.”

  “You have been very kind to Ronnie. He told me that he has never missed his father because he could always depend upon ‘Uncle Bob’.” Elfrida said this hesitantly; she had wanted to say it but she was a little doubtful as to how “Uncle Bob” would take it.

  “Did he say that?” asked Mr. Sandford. “I’m very glad to hear it . . . he feels he can depend upon me! Well, all I can say is I couldn’t be fonder of Ronnie if he were my own son.”

  By this time they had arrived at the little church and as usual Elfrida became completely absorbed in the service. It was only afterwards—a long time afterwards—that she remembered this little talk with Mr. Sandford.

  *

  13

  Walt Whitgreave arrived at Mountain Cross soon after twelve o’clock, driving himself in a hired car. Elfrida had been watching from an upstairs window; she had decided to let Mr. Sandford receive the unwelcome guest.

  When he had parked the car in the drive he got out and stood looking at the house and smoking a cigarette. He was tall and thin, with dark hair turning grey, and a sallow complexion.

  Elfrida wondered what he was thinking: was he angry with the Wares for changing the destiny of Mountain Cross? Was he angry with the girl who had appeared from nowhere and done him out of his inheritance?

  Suddenly he turned and instead of coming to the front door he walked round the east end of the house and disappeared from view. Her first reaction was surprise . . . but when she had reflected for a few moments she realised that he had known and loved the place long ago, so it was natural that he should want to have a look round before meeting his unknown cousin.

  Elfrida waited for some time, but at last she decided that she must get this meeting over so she pulled herself together and went downstairs to the parlour where she found Mr. Sandford and Mr. Whitgreave drinking sherry and talking.

  They broke off their conversation when she came in and Mr. Sandford made the introduction:

  “Mr. Whitgreave . . . Miss Ware,” he said formally.

  “But we’re cousins,” objected Mr. Whitgreave, as he shook hands with her. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony. I shall call you Elfrida—it’s a pretty name—and you must call me Walt, or Cousin Walt if you’d rather.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Elfrida; what else could she say? She added, “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your business talk.”

  “Not at all,” replied “Cousin Walt.” “There isn’t any secret about it. I was just going to show Mr. Sandford a letter.” He took a letter out of his pocket and unfolded it.

  “From Mr. Ware?” asked Mr. Sandford.

  “Yes. I won’t bother you to read the whole thing; it’s a long screed. He begins by saying he’s ill and wants to see me and goes on, ‘As you know I was devoted to your mother and have many happy memories of my boyhood days when my sister Doris and I used to play together at Mountain Cross. Then, later, you used to come and stay here for your holidays; it was a great pleasure to me to have you and to see you growing up to be a true Ware. Mountain Cross is very dear to me and, as I have no son of my own, I want you to have the place when I am gone. Your Aunt Jane and I have made wills leaving everything to each other but we are getting old and it seems foolish to leave our affairs in this condition as it would entail double death-duties.’ Then he goes on to bewail the high rate of taxation.”

  “I should like to see the letter,” said Mr. Sandford, holding out his hand.

  “I’ve read you the only important part,” replied “Cousin Walt,” folding it up and putting it back in his pocket.

  “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. You didn’t come and see your uncle when he was ill so he changed his mind. He left everything to his wife and in my opinion he was perfectly justified in doing so. Mr. Ware had been exceedingly good to you and I think——”

  “That’s an old story!”

  “Some people have short memories for benefits received.”

  “I couldn’t come,” declared Walt angrily. “You know that, Mr. Sandford. You had written suggesting I should come and I told you I couldn’t manage it. I told Uncle Roger the same.”

  “Business matters prevented you.”

  “Yes, at least . . . well, if you must know I was mixed up in a divorce case. I was co-respondent, so it was essential that I should be there.”

  “You didn’t mention that to your uncle, I presume?”

  “No, I didn’t. It was my own affair—nobody else’s.”

  “It was your own affair,” agreed Mr. Sandford. He added, “Mr. Ware’s will is perfectly clear, and a model of brevity, I shall be pleased to let you see it if you are in any doubt about his intentions.”

  “I’ve seen it at Somerset House,” muttered Walt. He rose and added, “If you’ll excuse me I’ll go and have a wash before lunch.”

  There was no need to show him where to go; he knew his way, of course.

  “I can’t stand the fellow—never could,” declared Mr. Sandford.

  “I know, but you’re making him angry,” Elfrida pointed out. “After all he has a right to be annoyed, so——”

  “He has no right to be annoyed.”

  “Couldn’t we just be polite and pleasant to him?”

  “Polite and pleasant!” said Mr. Sandford, with a short laugh.

  “I’m sure it’s the best way,” she said earnestly.

  Mr. Sandford walked over to the window and stood there, looking out. “I must say I should have liked to see that letter which he said was from Mr. Ware. It didn’t sound like Mr. Ware—all that sentimental nonsense about the old days and his devotion to his sister, Doris! Mr. Ware wasn’t particularly fond of his sister as far as I can remember . . . and in any case,” added Mr. Sandford. “The man had no right to read out a piece of the letter and then refuse to let me see it.”

  “You said it didn’t matter,” said Elfrida soothingly.

  “It doesn’t matter. We knew before that Mr. Ware had changed his mind about the disposal of his estate.”

  “In that case there doesn’t seem to be any point in talking about it, does there?”

  Mr. Sandford turned and smiled at her. He said, “We’re to be ‘polite and pleasant’ are we?”

  “Yes, please, Mr. Sandford. When he comes back I’ll give him the watch and—and we can talk about something else.”

  “Very well—if that’s how you want it—but you’ll have to do most of the talking, Elfrida; I find it extremely difficult to be ‘polite and pleasant’ to Walter Whitgreave.”

  When Walt returned he seemed in a better humour; he sat down beside Elfrida and said, “
I’m afraid you think I behaved rather badly, Elfrida, but I really couldn’t come when Uncle Roger asked me. As a matter of fact I had no idea he was so seriously ill and I was very upset when I heard he had died. By that time the case was settled so I wrote to Aunt Jane telling her how sorry I was and suggesting that I should pay her a visit; I felt sure she must be feeling lonely, and it would comfort her to see me and talk things over. She replied, thanking me for my letter, but said she wasn’t very well and would rather I put off my visit until she was better. Well, that suited me all right because I was getting married and we were looking for a flat. It was quite a shock when I heard that Aunt Jane was dead. That’s the story,” added Walt. “So now you know all about it.”

  “You must be—disappointed,” said Elfrida, with a little gasp. “I mean—about Mountain Cross. I’m sorry, Cousin Walt.” She had made up her mind to say this, and now it was said.

  “I’m glad you mentioned it,” he replied, smiling at her quite amiably. “I like straight talk—and it gives me an opportunity to explain my feelings. It’s true that Uncle Roger promised to make me his heir, and at one time, I would have been very pleased to inherit Mountain Cross and live here, but in recent years circumstances have changed. All my interests are in Canada, my business is in Montreal and I’m married to a Canadian girl . . . so what on earth would I have done with Mountain Cross? I suppose I could have sold it, but it wouldn’t fetch much. Very few people want a big old-fashioned house on the top of a cliff.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t want it,” put in Mr. Sandford, who was still standing by the window.

  “I know, but I was worrying——”

  “Don’t worry,” said Walt. “I wouldn’t live here if you paid me—and I can’t see Marigold in this environment; she’d go crazy in a week.”

  “In that case may I ask what all the fuss was about?” inquired Mr. Sandford coldly.