The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

“I don’t know what you mean!” exclaimed Walt.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Elfrida hastily. She produced the small leather box and added, “Look, Cousin Walt! Mr. Sandford told me you wanted a memento of your uncle; I thought you might like this.”

  “Oh, his watch! That’s very kind of you, Elfrida, but it’s a valuable watch. I didn’t mean you to give me anything valuable; I just wanted something to remind me of the old man . . . his stamp album, for instance. I used to see him sitting at his desk working with his stamps.”

  “Yes, of course you must have it, Cousin Walt. Do have the watch as well.”

  He took it and looked at it. “Yes, I remember this watch; Uncle Roger always wore it and it kept excellent time. Well, if you’re sure you want to give it to me . . .”

  Elfrida was quite sure; she was so relieved to find he did not want Mountain Cross that she was willing to give him anything. She smiled and said, “I’m delighted that you should have it—and anything else you would like. I found a nice little seventeenth century snuff-box when I was turning out a cupboard . . . or perhaps you would rather have some pieces of furniture for your new flat . . . or would you like a picture? There’s a very good engraving of Drake playing bowls, I expect you remember it hanging on the wall in the dining-room.”

  “You don’t know Marigold!” exclaimed Walt, laughing. “If I were to go back home with a lot of old-fashioned junk Marigold would throw it out in the street.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Elfrida faintly.

  “It wouldn’t fit in with Marigold’s scheme; she’s very up-to-date. She’s done over the whole apartment and the result is fine. All our friends admire it.”

  “How nice!”

  “I wish you could see it, Elfrida. You must fly over and visit us in the Fall. You’d like Marigold.”

  Elfrida had a feeling that she would not like Marigold, but she murmured polite thanks for the invitation.

  “We’ll fix it up,” said Walt. “I’ll have to consult Marigold, of course; she has a great many friends and enjoys visiting but I’m sure we’d manage to fit you in.” He put the little box into his pocket and added, “I appreciate your generosity in giving me the watch; you can’t buy watches like this nowadays. The stamp album is of no intrinsic value but I’d like to have it for sentimental reasons.”

  Elfrida nodded. “I expect it’s in the library; Mrs. Chowne will know.”

  *

  14

  Already the big dining-room had been abandoned and all the furniture swathed in dust sheets so when the gong was sounded for lunch Elfrida led her guests into Mr. Ware’s library, which had been converted into a very pleasant little dining-room, brighter and warmer and amply large enough for a party of three or four. Mrs. Chowne had never liked Mr. Whitgreave (she had said so) but that had not prevented her from serving up an excellent meal.

  Mr. Sandford had made it clear to Elfrida that he had no intention of being “polite and pleasant” to the guest, but he enjoyed good food and soon began to feel more amiable.

  “There has been a great deal in the papers lately about space flights,” said Mr. Sandford. “Are you interested in the subject, Walt?”

  It appeared that Walt was extremely interested in the subject; he knew an American astronaut who had taken part in a space flight and had told Walt about some of his experiences.

  This was a safe topic of conversation so Elfrida was able to sit back and eat her lunch in peace.

  “You’re very silent, Elfrida,” said Walt. “It’s a pity Marigold isn’t here . . . you could talk about clothes. Women are much more interested in dress than in space flights.”

  “Oh, I was very interested in what you were saying,” she replied. “I didn’t speak because I don’t know anything about space flights except what I’ve read in the papers.” Then she turned to Mrs. Chowne, who had come in with the coffee, and asked where Mr. Ware had kept his stamps.

  “Stamps, Miss Elfrida? I can give you some if you want them for your letters.”

  “Mr. Ware’s album,” said Walt loudly. “It’s a big red book; he used to keep it in his desk.”

  “Oh, an album!” said Mrs. Chowne. “The albums are all in that cupboard under the big bookcase.” She went to the cupboard, took out the pile of albums and dumped them on to the table. Her face had become very red and she was breathing heavily.

  “But these are photograph albums!” Walt exclaimed.

  “Yes, they’re full of photographs,” agreed Mrs. Chowne. “Mr. Ware had a lovely Kodak, he was for ever taking snaps. He took a lot of Miss Marjory; here’s one of her when she was all ready to go to a wedding—she had such a pretty frock! Wait till I find one of you, Mr. Whitgreave; it’s in this green album, I’m sure. Oh, yes, here it is! Mr. Ware took it the day you and Miss Marjory quarrelled about a game of tennis. You didn’t like her beating you. That’s why you’re looking so glum.”

  Elfrida said quickly, “Let’s finish clearing the table, Mrs. Chowne. I’ll come and help you to wash up.”

  “Don’t bother. I’d rather do it myself,” replied Mrs. Chowne. She piled the plates on to the trolley and wheeled it away.

  “Stupid woman!” exclaimed Walt. “I don’t know what she was talking about. She spoke as if she knew me, but I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  “She’s a bit fussed,” said Elfrida apologetically. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll go and help her . . . meanwhile you can have a look round and see if you can find the album.”

  “You don’t mind my having asked for it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “The only reason I want it is because I used to see Uncle Roger working with it. He knew very little about stamps, it was just a hobby to pass the time.”

  “I should have thought it was a hobby to most people,” put in Mr. Sandford.

  Walt smiled in a pitying manner, “Obviously you aren’t a philatelist, Mr. Sandford. You’ve got to study the subject seriously if you want to have a decent collection.”

  “I’ve never been interested, but my partner, Arnold Riggs, is a keen philatelist,” said Mr. Sandford coldly.

  Elfrida left them talking and pursued Mrs. Chowne into the pantry.

  “I don’t want any help, Miss Elfrida,” declared Mrs. Chowne. “I told you I’d rather do the washing up myself.”

  Elfrida hid her annoyance and said tactfully, “I wish we could find that book; I should like Mr. Whitgreave to have it. You see Mr. Ware promised to leave him Mountain Cross and——”

  “I’m very glad he changed his mind!”

  “So am I,” admitted Elfrida. “But it must be disappointing for Mr. Whitgreave and he has taken it very well. The book isn’t valuable but he wants it, and I should like to give it to him before he goes home to Montreal.”

  “I don’t know where it is, Miss Elfrida.”

  “But you remember it, don’t you? You told me that Mr. Ware was interested in stamps.”

  “Yes, he used to potter about with that red book.” She hesitated and then added. “I’m afraid I was a bit short with Mr. Whitgreave but I never liked him—and I can’t stand being shouted at—and this morning before lunch when he came round to the back door he was horrid to Ernie.”

  “Horrid? What did he say?”

  “I don’t know what he said (I was busy in the kitchen) but Ernie was quite upset . . . and I’m not going to have people upsetting Ernie whether they live in Montreal or Timbuctoo,” declared Mrs. Chowne in belligerent tones.

  “Of course not! No wonder you were angry!”

  Mrs. Chowne was appeased. She handed Elfrida a plate to dry and said more quietly, “Yes, I lost my temper. I don’t often lose my temper and I’m always sorry afterwards. Well, it can’t be helped (just leave the plates in a pile, Miss Elfrida; I’ll put them away later). About that book; I haven’t seen it for months but it must be somewhere in the house. I’ll get Ernie to help me and we’ll have a thorough search.”

  It was not a peaceful afternoon. The
Chownes began their search in the library which seemed the most likely place (Mrs. Chowne explained that “the red book” was always kept in the library and it might have slipped down behind the other books on the book-shelves). Chowne brought in the ladder and starting at the top, proceeded to take out all the books and to hand them down to his wife, who dusted them carefully and piled them in heaps on the floor. Cousin Walt stood and watched them in silence.

  Mr. Sandford retired to the parlour and Elfrida followed him.

  “That book might be here,” she said, beginning to hunt round the room.

  Together they emptied the drawers of the tallboy but they found nothing of interest.

  “I can’t think of anything I dislike more than looking for things,” said Mr. Sandford, sinking into a chair.

  “Yes, it’s an awful nuisance,” agreed Elfrida. “I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t feel guilty about Mountain Cross.”

  “Will nothing convince you that you needn’t feel guilty about Mountain Cross?” asked Mr. Sandford with a heavy sigh.

  “He has taken it very well, hasn’t he?” said Elfrida, beginning to search in the drawers of the bureau. “I mean, some men might have been horrid about it . . . and anyhow you seemed to be getting on better with him. I mean he was interesting about space flights.”

  “Practically everything he said was untrue.”

  “Untrue?” asked Elfrida in astonishment.

  “Oh, I don’t know about the space flights—all that may have been true—but many of his other statements were not. I should very much like to know why he made all that fuss at the beginning if he did not want Mountain Cross . . . but you prevented me from questioning him.”

  “It was because I hate rows; it frightens me when people are angry,” explained Elfrida. She hesitated and then added, “Of course, it wasn’t true that he had never seen Mrs. Chowne before in his life . . . but he can’t do anything, can he, Mr. Sandford? He can’t turn me out of Mountain Cross.”

  “Your title to the place is absolutely secure,” Mr. Sandford assured her.

  She was standing still, gazing at him in alarm. “But Mr. Sandford, supposing Grandfather made another will, leaving Mountain Cross to Walt Whitgreave—and—and hid it somewhere? Perhaps that’s what he’s looking for!”

  “You’ve been reading too many sensational novels, Elfrida,” replied Mr. Sandford, smiling. “People don’t make wills and then hide them—not in real life. What would be the sense of it?”

  While they were talking Walt had become tired of watching the activities of the Chownes and had begun to rove round the house, searching in various rooms and poking into unused cupboards; he seemed very anxious indeed to find Mr. Ware’s stamp album. Fortunately, however, he had an engagement in Plymouth that evening so he was obliged to abandon the search and drove away in his hired car soon after five o’clock.

  Elfrida saw him off at the door and was so pleased to see him go that she promised to have another look for the album and to send it to him if it were found.

  *

  15

  Mr. Sandford went back to London on Monday morning; his man brought the car to the door and carried down his suitcase.

  “Don’t worry about that wretched book,” said Mr. Sandford as he took leave of his hostess.

  “I wish we could find it.”

  “You’ve done all you could. You’ve given him the watch—it’s a valuable watch. You’ve offered him that charming snuff-box, and anything else he would like in the way of pictures or furniture, and all you got for your kindness was the information that his wife would throw it into the street! He said himself that the book was of no value, so why worry?”

  “Sentimental value,” murmured Elfrida.

  “Pshaw!” exclaimed Mr. Sandford in disgust. “I disliked the fellow in the old days and he hasn’t improved. Put the whole thing out of your head, Elfrida. That’s my advice.”

  It was good advice but Elfrida was unable to take it, for Mrs. Chowne was a persevering woman; she had made up her mind to find “the red book” and she continued her search for days. Elfrida would discover her diving head first into disused cupboards or hunting amongst piles of rubbish which had been banished to the cellars. Mrs. Chowne found quite a number of queer things during her search: amongst them a large crystal ball on an ebony stand; a copper preserving pan with a hole in the bottom; one Wellington boot; the model of a sailing-ship in a glass bottle; a warming pan; an ivory fan with broken sticks; two books of sermons; a’ box containing a cocked hat; a pair of duelling pistols, exceedingly rusty, and, last but by no means least, a very amateur water-colour painting of an unknown mountain with snow on the top and with white clouds, which looked like handfuls of cotton-wool, floating in a pale blue sky. Mrs. Chowne was enchanted with this and when Elfrida refused to have it in the parlour asked permission to “borrow it” and hung it proudly over the chimney-piece in her sitting-room.

  All these unrelated objects were discovered by Mrs. Chowne, but she did not find “the red book” and presently gave up the quest in despair.

  To Elfrida the collection was intriguing for it evoked visions of the past. What had happened to the other Wellington boot—or had this belonged to a man with one leg? What member of the family had worn the cocked hat? Had the duelling pistols ever been used in anger? The crystal ball was the best of the bunch in Elfrida’s estimation; she cleaned it carefully and put it on the top of the bureau in the parlour where it stood reflecting the colours of the room. Who had owned it and why had it been wrapped up in an old linen towel and stowed away in the cupboard under the stairs?

  These unanswerable questions sent Elfrida to the photograph albums; she brought them into the parlour and studied them with care, beginning with the oldest in which slightly yellowed photographs of ladies with leg-of-mutton sleeves and tiny waists leant against sundials. Sometimes they were accompanied by gentlemen in formal attire with curiously-shaped silk hats on their heads and silver-topped canes in their hands. Who were they? It seemed sad that Mountain Cross (which presumably had been their home) had come into the possession of a girl who did not even know their names.

  The more recent albums were more interesting; instead of formal portraits they contained “snaps” . . . Snaps of Marjory as a baby; as a small girl in a sunbonnet; as a girl of fifteen or so with a pigtail; as a “grown-up” girl in a frilly frock and a cart-wheel hat. Elfrida searched for the picture of Walt and discovered a youth in long white trousers with the same unattractive features as Cousin Walt and an expression which quite definitely was glum.

  The most interesting was a group of three, posed upon the steps which led down from the side door of Mountain Cross. It was very small, but quite clear when examined with a magnifying glass, and consisted of a middle-aged lady, whom Elfrida took to be her grandmother; a young man, who most certainly was Robert Sandford—his eyebrows alone would have identified him—and a very pretty girl with fair hair, which was Marjory, of course.

  Mr. Ware had taken these snaps with his “lovely Kodak” and Marjory appeared in nearly all of them. How young she looked, how happy and healthy and carefree! These old photographs, examined with so much interest, had a curious effect upon Elfrida. From the very first day of her arrival at Mountain Cross, Elfrida had been conscious of her mother’s presence . . . but now it was not the worn-out, sick woman who was at her side but the young happy Marjory of long ago. Elfrida had begun to think of her as “Marjory”—as an elder sister rather than a mother—as the beautiful girl of the portrait which hung on the wall in Mrs. Ware’s bedroom.

  Elfrida often went and looked at the portrait; she toyed with the idea of taking it down and hanging it in the parlour, which she used as her sitting-room, but for some reason she was reluctant to move it.

  The days slid by with amazing speed; there was so much to do at Mountain Cross, so many new experiences to savour: the sea, constantly changing; the salty breezes; the green buds opening in the hedges. Marjory had talked of it all during
her last illness—and Elfrida had listened—but hearing is not seeing.

  The seagulls were especially interesting to Elfrida and she never tired of watching them soaring in the blue sky and diving into the sea. They were playful creatures and enjoyed aerobatics, allowing themselves to be carried upwards by the lift of air which occurred when the sea breeze struck the cliff . . . then they would hover for a few moments and swerve and bank and glide gracefully away.

  Mrs. Chowne was fond of seagulls and every night when she and Chowne had finished their tea she came out on to the top of the cliff with a basketful of scraps. The seagulls knew the exact moment when she would appear and were always ready, waiting for her. They screamed loudly and darted at the scraps, sometimes catching them in mid-air, sometimes squabbling for them on the ground.

  Elfrida never missed this performance; she watched from the parlour window and laughed inordinately.

  The sunshine and fresh air and good country food were doing wonders for Elfrida; she had recovered from her bad time in London and was putting on weight . . . better still the complete change of environment and the various interests in her new life had helped her to recover from Glen Siddons. She had “worked him out of her system,” as Miss Martineau had advised, and when she thought of him—which was seldom—she could think of him calmly and wonder at herself for being such an idiot.

  *

  One day Elfrida walked up to the copse to see how Mr. Cobley was getting on; she found him hard at work. He had two assistants with him: the burly Tom Parkins and an even larger and heftier young man.

  Mr. Cobley welcomed her with his usual cordiality and explained that “Ernie was busy with the garden and suchlike” so he had engaged Ned Bruch in his place. “It’ll be done all the sooner,” said Mr. Cobley; adding hastily, “And it won’t cost you nothing.”

  “The place is an awful mess,” she murmured unhappily.

  “You wait till we’ve finished! We’ll tidy it up and it’ll be lovely. You can ’ave picnics ’ere. It’ll be lovely, won’t it, Tom?”

  Tom Parkins said, “That’s right,” and spitting on his hands seized an axe and laid on with a will.