Penhallow
Page 34
He went on sorting the contents of his desk. Well, hr thought, I’m not going to live. Whatever they say, I shan’t hear. They’ll think I murdered Father to stop his mouth. I don’t mind that. It may even work out for the best. The police will drop the case, and Ingram won’t let the truth leak out, once I’m safely out of his way. The police will probably tell him, but he’ll see to it that it doesn’t go any further. Or they might not even tell him. Jimmy would, though. Yes, Jimmy will try to get money out of him by threatening to broadcast the story. Well, that’s Ingram’s worry, not mine any longer. He’ll deal with Jimmy all right.
He opened the bottom right-hand drawer in the desk, and took out the small service revolver which lay in it, in its holster. The revolver had belonged to Ingram, and was a relic of the Great War. Ingram had left it at Trevellin, forgetting all about it. It was typical of Raymond that, although he had never had any use for it, he should have kept it in good order. There was a box of cartridges in the drawer. Raymond drew the revolver out of its holster, broke it, and slipped in one cartridge. After that, he laid it down on the blotting-pad, and rose to open the safe that stood against the wall behind him. Here everything was in order, but he went through the contents, not so much because he desired to make things easy for Ingram, but because he had always prided himself upon his businesslike methods. After a moment’s hesitation, he took his keys out of his pocket, and, detaching the key of the safe from the ring, placed the others in the safe, and shut the door, and locked it.
He glanced round the room, trying to remember if there were anything he had forgotten to do. The accounts were all made up to date, he knew. He wished he could think that Ingram would keep his ledgers in the apple-pie order in which he would find them, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter to him what Ingram did when he took command of the estate. He ran his eyes along the shelf that held his files. Rents; Farm; Hunting-Stables; Stud-Farm; Pedigrees — he hoped the Demon colt would fulfil his early promise; he thought he would take a last look at the colt in which so many of his hopes had been centred; sentimental nonsense, of course, but he hadn’t had time during the past three interminable days to visit the Upper Paddock, and he would like to see the colt again.
There were one or two matters that would require attending to in the course of the next few weeks: he must direct Ingram’s attention to them, and also to the estimates for inch-elm for the new loose-boxes. He sat down again at his desk, and drew a sheet of notepaper towards him, unscrewed the cap of his fountain-pen, and began unhurriedly to write a letter to Ingram.
It was a strange, businesslike communication, containing no reference to what he had made up his mind to do, no message of farewell, no directions for the disposal of his private property. Merely it informed Ingram where he would find various papers and documents; what business was necessary to be settled in the near future; and what was the safe combination. He enclosed the key of the safe in this letter, slipped the whole into an envelope, and sealed and addressed it. He left it on the blotter, and rose, picking up Ingram’s revolver, and putting it in his pocket. One of his pipes lay in a large bronze ashtray, some of the cold ash in it spilled from the bowl. He took the pipe in his hand, meaning to knock out the dottle, and to restore the pipe to the rack on the mantlepiece. Then it occurred to him that he would not smoke it again, and with a slight twisted smile , he dropped it into the wastepaper-basket.
He cast one final glance round the room, taking silent leave of it. It would probably never look so neat again, for Ingram was an untidy man, and kept his papers in a perpetual state of chaos. It was so disagreeable to him to picture Ingram in the room that he had to tell himself again that it wouldn’t matter to him what havoc Ingram created amongst his ordered files. All the same, he did hope that Ingram wouldn’t quite undo his careful work. It hurt him so much to think of Ingram perhaps letting Trevellin down that he turned away abruptly, and left the room.
As he traversed the corridor again on his way to one of the garden-doors, he saw Martha emerge from the stillroom at the other end of it. He thought that she looked at him with hostility. She did not speak, and as he went out into the garden he thought: Yes, it’s just as well that things have turned out as they have. Even if Jimmy had got away to America, I couldn’t have stood it. Funny that I didn’t see it before.
This reflection led him on to others. As he walked across the gardens towards the stables, he thought of all the hidden dangers that would have lurked on every side, waiting to pounce upon him, if he had decided to brave it out. He might at some time have had to produce his birth certificate, and heaven only knew what that might not have led to. Or somewhere in the world there might exist some chance traveller who had met Penhallow, with his wife and his sister-in-law on that fantastic honeymoon. He would never have known from one day to the next when some unforeseen and devilish kink of fate might not have betrayed him. Oh, no! It was better to clear out now, before the worry and the suspense had driven him crazy. He had known an impulse to beg Ingram, in his letter, to do what he could to keep his secret, but he had been unable to force his stiff pen to write the words. Probably it was unnecessary, anyway. Ingram might dislike him, but he was too proud of his name to want such a shameful story to be made known. People might believe him to have been a murderer: he cared very little for that; but if he died now it was just possible that they would never know that he had been just another of Penhallow’s bastards; and although, of course, that wouldn’t matter to him in his oblivion, he couldn’t help clinging to the hope that it would be as Raymond Penhallow that he would be remembered.
When he reached the stables, Weens came up to speak to him about several small matters requiring his consideration. Habit made him attend to Weens, but just as he was authorising the head-groom to proceed with certain trivial alterations in the stable routine, he remembered that it was absurd of him to give Weens orders which Ingram might overset, and he told the man that he would think it over, and let him know later.
While his favourite hack was being saddled for him, he walked over to the loose-box which housed one of his hunters, and fondled him, pulling his ears, and running his hand down his satin neck. The animal, knowing well what he always carried in his pockets, nudged him, blowing softly down his nostrils. Raymond gave him a handful of sugar, patted him finally, and turned away. He hoped Ingram wouldn’t sell his hunters: he had loved them as he had never loved a mere human.
An under-groom led out his hack. He took a last look at the stables of his designing. Well! Ingram would run them, at least, as well as he had done: no use allowing himself to sentimentalise over them. He mounted the hack, nodded to Weens, and rode out of the yard, up the track that led to the stud-farm.
When he came to the Upper Paddock, he reined in, and sat watching the Demon colt. Yes, he had been right in thinking that he had bred a hit. It was hard to fault the colt. He had the long, muscular fore-arm that meant a strong action, a grand shoulder-blade, high, thin withers, and well-bent hocks. He was going to be a winner all right. A pity he wouldn’t be here to break the colt himself. If Ingram were wise, he would put him in Bart’s hands. He hoped he wouldn’t let Con meddle; Con was no good at training horses: too impatient to be allowed to handle a nervous, high-couraged colt such as this one. Oh, well! No use worrying his head over the colt’s breaking: probably Ingram would manage all right.
He turned a little in the saddle, and looked back at Trevellin. He had come uphill, and beyond the new roofs of the stables, and the screen of trees, he could just see the old grey house, sprawling in the middle of its haphazard gardens, its graceful gables and tall chimney-stacks lifting towards the cloudless sky. A wreath of smoke from the kitchen chimney curled upwards in the still air; and a glimpse of intense blue, caught through the foliage of the intervening trees, showed where the great bank of hydrangeas shut off the west wing from his sight. He let his eyes travel over all that he could see of his home, in a long, steady look; and then turned, and rode on, and did not
again glance back.
He rode towards the Moor, as he had done a few days earlier. It seemed a very long time ago. He really didn’t know why he had chosen to come again, or why he had a fancy to look at the Pool once more. He would probably find it infested with trippers, for the summer was advancing; and its old associations for him had been spoilt by the bitter hour he had spent beside it four days before. But he had always loved the Moor, and in particular that corner of it, and he thought that if he must blow his brains out somewhere he would like it to be there.
He was so fully prepared to find trippers picnicking on the banks of the Pool that he was surprised to find it deserted when he came to it. The waters were unruffled, and somewhere, high in the hazy blue, a lark was singing. He lifted his head to meet the slight breeze blowing from the east, and sat for a moment, looking towards the horizon. The sky-line was broken by great outcroppings of granite; not far away, a gorse-bush blazed golden in the sunlight; the breeze which so lightly fanned his cheeks was laden with the smell of peat, and of thyme: nostalgic scents, which brought to his mind the memories of happier times spent on the Moor. Well, I’ve had close on forty pretty good years, he thought, dismounting, and pulling up his stirrups. Lots of fellows of my age were killed in the War. I was luckier than that. Good job I’m not married, too. Don’t know what I should have done if I had been. Hell, I wish it wasn’t Ingram!
He pulled himself up on that thought, and began to unbuckle the cheek-strap of the bridle. “Think I’ll unbridle you, old chap,” he said, giving the horse a pat. “Don’t want you to go breaking a foreleg.”
The horse stood still, sweating a little, for it was very warm. Raymond drew the bridle over his head bestowed a last, friendly pat on him, and started him off with a clap on one haunch. He watched him for a moment or two; then he thought there was no point in hanging about, and took the revolver out of his pocket.
Chapter Twenty-Two
No particular comment was excited by Raymond’s absence at tea-time. Bart knew that he had been at the stables, and supposed him to have ridden up to the stud-farm. Bart himself had gone to Trellick after lunch, to look over the place, and to decide what alterations would be needed in the house before he and Loveday could take possession of it. He wondered how soon it would be before Raymond could give the bailiff at present in charge of the farm notice to leave; and hoped very much that it would not be necessary to wait for probate. His father’s death, followed as it had been by his quarrel with Conrad, had made Trevellin horrible to him. He would not enter the huge, deserted room at the end of the house, and could scarcely bear even to pass its closed doors. Even the sight of Penhallow’s fat spaniel had upset him, but the old dog, as though aware that of all Penhallow’s children he had most loved him, attached herself to him, waddling at his heels whenever he was in the house, and fixing him with a mournful, appealing gaze which touched his pity, and made him adopt her, and most forcibly veto Eugene’s suggestion that she should be shot.
Clifford had motored up to Trevellin to see how the family did, but he had not brought Rosamund with him. He had come as near to quarrelling with Rosamund as was possible for a man of his sunny temper. Rosamund never favourably disposed towards the Penhallows, was so shocked by the news that they seemed likely to have been involved in a particularly unpleasant scandal that she had represented to Clifford in the strongest terms the wisdom of cutting all connection with the family. She told him that he owed it to his social position, and to his daughters’ futures, to demonstrate to the world at large that he had no commerce with his cousins at all. Clifford was really angry with her, and he had gone off to his office that morning without kissing her good-bye, a circumstance which marked a milestone in their lives. Clifford, who had spent his boyhood under Penhallow’s roof, was grieved by his death, and deeply distressed by the manner of it. He could not do enough, he said, to show his sympathy with his cousins; and as for casting them off, he hoped he was not such a sanctimonious swine as to consider doing such a thing for an instant.
What he had heard of the Inspector’s investigations worried him very much. At first certain that Jimmy the Bastard must have murdered Penhallow, he had been forced to the reluctant belief that the crime had been committed by some member of the family: Raymond, or Clay, or even Faith, whose slightly hysterical behaviour on the day that she had visited his office he could not quite banish from his mind. He found himself thinking about what they must do if the worst came to the worst, and the police discovered sufficient evidence to justify the arrest of one of these suspects. We must brief the best counsel possible, he thought. No half-measures about it: thank God there’s no lack of means to pay for the defence!
He had not heard about the arrest of Jimmy in Bristol until he reached Trevellin, but it was told him then by Eugene, who added that they were all breathless with expectation because of what Jimmy had said on being apprehended.
Clifford’s round face was almost comic in its look of concern. He shook his head over this news, and said heavily that he didn’t like it at all.
"Oh, don’t you?” said Aubrey. “That’s probably because you’re not implicated in this tiresome affair. You can have simply no idea what an appalling effect being a suspect has upon one’s character. I mean, it’s too daunting. Take me, for instance! The instant I heard that Jimmy had an important disclosure to make I felt ten years younger. I did really. Because though I don’t know what ghastly secret he’s going to divulge I do know that it can’t be about me.”
“I wouldn’t believe what Jimmy said on oath!” declared Bart, his brow beginning to lower.
“Wouldn’t you, Bart dear? But isn’t that because you’ve got this touching idée fixe about none of us being capable of killing Father? Or are you afraid that he knows something awful about Loveday?”
“No, I’m not!” Bart said, looking dangerous. “And I’ll thank you to keep your tongue off Loveday!”
Clifford intervened, telling Aubrey to shut up, and reproving Bart for rising to obvious baits. When the tea tray was brought in, Faith and Vivian entered the room, and Clifford soon seized the opportunity to sit down beside Faith, and to ask her whether he was correct in assuming that Clay no longer proposed to enter his office. Before she could reply, Clay himself, who was standing close enough to overhear the question, said rather hastily that he hadn’t made up his mind what he was going to do. Everyone looked rather surprised at this unexpected statement, except Aubrey, who said immediately: “I do think Clay’s efforts to avert suspicion from himself are too utterly arid! Anything more convincing, little brother, than...”
“Be quiet, Aubrey!” Faith said sharply. “No, I don’t wish Clay to be a solicitor, Cliff. I — I don’t quite know how things stand, whether I shall be able to afford — or whether Adam made provision for him?”
“Didn’t Uncle tell you?” Clifford asked. “But you know the terms of your marriage settlements, don’t you?”
It was so obvious that she had only the vaguest idea of what these might be that as soon as he had finished his tea Clifford suggested that she might like him to explain to her exactly how she stood, peculiarly speaking. As she accepted this offer gratefully, they both withdrew to the morning-room, just as Conrad came in.
Conrad exchanged a brief greeting with his cousin, but waited until the door had shut behind him and Faith before divulging the news he had learnt at the stables. “Look here!” he said. “There’s something damned odd up! Courtier’s come in, without his bridle!”
“What?” said Charmian. “Come in without his bridle? What on earth do you mean?”
“Just exactly what I said! Ray took him out this afternoon, not long after lunch, and they say at the stables that he rode off towards the stud-farm.”
“Peculiar,” said Eugene, reaching out his hand for a sandwich. “But hardly worth all this suppressed excitement, I feel. One supposes that Ray decided to go farther, and sent the horse home. You will probably find that he caught the bus into Bodmin.”
“Too hot,” said Eugene, yawning. “I expect it would be too much to ask of Sybilla that she should send up some other sandwiches than cucumber. One would have thought that she must have known by now that cucumber is poison to me.”
Bart jumped up. “To hell with you and your fads!” he exclaimed. “Something’s wrong! Something must have happened to Ray!”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Clara, rubbing the end of her nose. “It’s a queer thing to do, but I don’t see that there’s any need to get in a fuss about it. If Courtier had had his bridle on, I should have said Ray had had a tumble, but if he took it off the gee, there can’t be much wrong.”