Touch and Go

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Darling!” Lucilla sat down heavily on Sarah’s toes and draped the eiderdown round her. “I’ll have my tea now please.” She took the cup and sipped from it, looking over the brim with round, solemn eyes. “And how did my darling Sarah sleep?”

  “How did you expect me to sleep?” said Sarah.

  Lucilla took a large, noisy mouthful of tea and gulped it down. Her eyes had changed though; Sarah could have sworn to that. She could not have sworn to what the change portended. Oddly enough, she thought it was relief.

  “Well?” said Sarah after a moment. “What about it? How did you expect me to sleep in here?”

  Lucilla’s face shut up. The laughter went out of it. Everything else went too. It was just a face, with a nose, two eyes, and rather a secret mouth. She finished her tea and put down the cup. She looked sideways at Sarah.

  “Did you lie awake and long for your lovely pink room? It’s a beautiful room to sleep in. I slept like a top.”

  Sarah sat up and caught her by the wrists.

  “Now, you little fiend—look at me! Were you playing tricks last night?”

  “I?” The blue eyes were as round as saucers.

  “Yes, you. Were you playing tricks?”

  The relief flashed out again. This time Sarah was sure of it.

  “What sort of tricks?”

  Sarah let go of her, jumped out of bed, and ran to the east window. The sun streamed in through it, very pleasant and golden. The trees which bordered the drive were golden too in their autumn dress, with here and there the dark green of pine, holly, and yew. They had all been black together when the clock struck twelve. But she was not concerned with the trees. She was looking at the bare half inch of window-ledge beyond the sash. Nothing that went on legs could have clung there to dash itself against the glass. “It was an owl,” said Sarah in the daylight.

  She leaned out of the window and looked along the side of the house. There were other windows—a bathroom, a spare room, Ricky’s room. His was the farthest away. She wondered if he had heard anything. Below, and a little to the left, was the porch which covered the side door. It had a flat top with a low stone balustrade. From the level of the porch a ledge about eight inches wide ran round the house, swelling out into a cornice above the ground-floor windows. A cat might have come along that ledge and then climbed up the creeper to Lucilla’s window. There was an ampelopsis flaming in crimson and maroon, and an old wistaria with a gnarled stem that spread about the corner. Yes, a cat could very well have climbed to the window. By no conceivable means could it have clung to that half-inch ledge whilst it dashed itself against the pane.

  She heard a breath taken, and turned sharp round to find Lucilla at her elbow. If she had been less quick, she might not have surprised the expression which she did surprise. She felt that afterwards. At the time she was only concerned as to the meaning which that expression might have. She thought it was fear, but there was more to it than that, and what the more might be she couldn’t tell. She stopped thinking that it was Lucilla who had played tricks in the night, but not in time to stop the words that were already on her tongue.

  “Was it you?”

  The expression was gone in a flash. An ingenuous surprise took its place.

  “Was what me?”

  “Something banged on the glass,” said Sarah, watching her.

  A sudden colour ran up to the roots of Lucilla’s hair. She took a breath which came near to being a gasp and blinked her eyes as if she had been hit. She repeated Sarah’s words unsteadily.

  “Something—banged—against the glass?”

  “Yes,” said Sarah.

  Lucilla caught her by the arm with two very cold hands. They gripped hard. She said,

  “What?”

  Sarah said, “I don’t know.”

  “You heard it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No.”

  Lucilla let go of her arm, turned in a wavering sort of fashion, and went back to the bed. When she got there, she went down in a crouching heap with her head on her arms and her shoulders heaving.

  Sarah looked at her, frowning, for a moment. Then she took the pale blue tumbler from the shelf above the blue china wash-basin and filled it at the ridiculous pale blue tap. It went through her mind that it must have annoyed Mrs. Raimond not to be able to arrange for a flow of sky-blue water. She told Lucilla to sit up and have a drink, and when there was no response, informed her that the alternative was a tumblerful of cold water down her back.

  Lucilla sat up with amazing suddenness. She said “Beast! You wouldn’t!” And then she grabbed the glass and drank from it.

  When she had finished, Sarah said seriously,

  “What’s all this about, Lucilla?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lucilla in a small flat voice. Then she said, “You did hear it?”

  “It was an owl,” said Sarah in her firmest voice.

  Lucilla seemed to put that away—Sarah thought it didn’t interest her. She said again,

  “But you did hear it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Yes, you little idiot!”

  “You’re not saying it just to please me?”

  “Why should it please you?”

  There was a silence. The door behind which Lucilla lived opened a very little way. Sarah was aware of the door, and she was aware that it was opening. She thought it didn’t open very often. She wondered if it was the real Lucilla who looked out at her through the chink, wary but driven into speech.

  “If you heard it—” The child paused, steadied herself, and went on. “If you did hear it—then it wasn’t—just—me.”

  Sarah kicked herself for not having got there before. She said at once in a steady, every-day voice,

  “Of course it wasn’t you. Don’t be an ass. I don’t know what it was, but it made the hell of a row. I thought it was going to break the glass. I expect it was an owl.”

  The chink went suddenly and the door was shut. Lucilla made an impudent face.

  “Governesses shouldn’t say hell—not in front of the child anyway.”

  CHAPTER X

  They met Mr. John Brown in the woods that morning. He seemed to have been sketching. At any rate he had with him a block and a paint box in a ramshackle old satchel which hung dangling from an untidy canvas strap. It was the paint box, a corner of which stuck out through a gaping tear, which enabled them to feel quite certain that the stranger loafing through Lucilla’s woods was the client who had Uncle Geoffrey’s permission to sketch there.

  Sarah was rather amused by the way in which Lucilla went up to him.

  “Are you Mr. Brown?”

  Mr. John Brown said that he was.

  “I’m Lucilla Hildred. My uncle told us you would like to sketch here. This is my friend Miss Trent.”

  Lucilla was being rather grand, because she was shy, and she wasn’t at all used to being shy.

  Mr. John Brown responded politely. He said it was very nice of her to let him wander about. He smiled slightly, and his eyes, which seemed lighter than they really were against the deep brown of his skin, looked at her for a moment as if they were looking right through her—an odd piercing look with a hint of amusement in it. And then he wasn’t looking at Lucilla any more. It was Sarah who was being looked through and wasn’t sure that she liked it. It may be said at once she hadn’t the slightest idea that this was not their first meeting. When she had stopped his car by the east drive of Holme Fallow, she had been aware of no more than a shadow and a voice—Mr. John Brown had taken good care of that. At the Lizard she had not seen him at all. Not that it would have mattered to Mr. Brown if she had. He had good enough reasons for not wishing her to remember that she had seen him in the neighbourhood of Holme Fallow that night, but anyone may go to the Lizard, and she was welcome to remember that she ha
d seen him there. As it turned out, she had not seen him.

  She looked at him now for the first time, and might have liked him if he had not made her angry by looking through her and looking amused. He was well enough—the sort of man she rather liked—not young, not old—forty or something less. He looked hard and fit, and quite extraordinarily brown, and he wore his old tweed suit easily. But what in the name of all that was outrageous did he find amusing about Sarah Trent? He had a quiet, pleasant voice and an American accent. The motorist who had been stopped by Miss Trent had had no accent. Sarah did not think of this, because she had no reason to think of it. She was engaged in being angry with Mr. John Brown. She did not in any way connect him with the motorist.

  He had now turned back to Lucilla.

  “Mr. Hildred has very kindly asked me to dinner to-night.”

  “Are you coming?” Lucilla had stopped being grand. She now looked and spoke with the naive directness of a child.

  “I should like to come very much,” said Mr. Brown.

  And that was all. They went one way, and he another.

  He came to dinner in the evening, and made a very good impression. Miss Marina took a great fancy to him. What she chiefly desired was a good listener, and Mr. John Brown listened very well indeed. During dinner he lent a respectfully attentive ear to one of her longer stories, the one about the house which her parents had so nearly taken when she was in her early teens and which turned out afterwards to have a skeleton buried in the garden.

  “Such an escape! And so much more suitable that it should have been the Bishop of Blackminster who took it.”

  Mr. Hildred said, “Nonsense, Marina!” and Lucilla asked “Why?” rather pertly, but Mr. John Brown went on listening a little vaguely but still very respectfully while Miss Marina told him all about the skeleton being the skeleton of the gardener’s wife.

  “Only of course he wasn’t gardener there any longer, because the whole thing had happened about thirty years before, and he said the poor thing had run away to America with their lodger, and all the time he’d killed her and buried her in the garden. So wasn’t that a merciful escape?”

  “For her, or for him?” said Ricky with his rather sniggering laugh.

  Lucilla kicked him under the table, and Miss Marina flowed serenely on.

  “For my parents, dear boy. My mother was very nervous and delicate, and I’m sure such an unpleasant thing as a skeleton in the garden would have upset her very much. I’ve often heard her say that she would have insisted on my father leaving at once. She had a feeling that the lodger might be there too. But it shows, does it not, Mr. Brown, that murder will out?”

  Quite seriously and respectfully Mr. John Brown disagreed.

  “Not always, Miss Hildred,” he said. “A great many murders are never found out at all. They are too carefully planned and too cleverly carried out.”

  To Sarah’s surprise she felt a shiver run over her. She and Mr. Brown were on one side of the table, with Lucilla and Ricky opposite. Uncle Geoffrey had the head and Aunt Marina the foot. It was as if a little cold wind had moved in the room. Sarah’s spine crept. She looked across to Lucilla and frowned. What was the matter with them all? The girl looked as white as a bit of paper. From her left, Mr. Hildred said,

  “Rather a ghastly topic for the dinner-table, Marina. Lucilla will be having bad dreams.” He began with pleasant ease to talk of a play he had seen in town. Was Mr. Brown fond of the theatre?… Well then, he should certainly not miss such first-class acting.

  In the drawing-room Miss Marina approved of Mr. Brown. She produced her very highest award. “My dear, I think we may say—a gentleman. Do you not agree with me?”

  Sarah agreed. Lucilla giggled.

  Miss Marina went on talking happily about the decadence of manners, and how rare it was to meet anyone whom you could call a gentleman—“I mean, of course, my dear, outside one’s own circle and social connections”—until the men came in.

  It was later in the evening that Sarah found herself a little apart from the others with Geoffrey Hildred. He was, she found, an enthusiastic collector of china, and he had taken her to the far end of the room to show her what she privately thought an extremely ugly plate. Uncle Geoffrey, it appeared, admired it with passion. It was Lucilla’s property, having been one of her mother’s wedding presents, and he feared very much that it had never been properly appreciated. Lucilla, of course, was too young—“And poor Lucy’s taste—well, well, I mustn’t say anything about that now, poor thing.” He discoursed instead upon ceramics in general, and Chinese art in particular. He handled the plate lovingly, and made Sarah feel the glaze. It was a long time before she had an opportunity of saying more than “Yes,” and, “I see.” All the Hildreds seemed to like being listened to, and in a general way Sarah did not mind listening. Uncle Geoffrey’s discourse was interesting enough, but she had something to say, and she thought this might be a good opportunity of saying it. She waited as long as possible and then plunged.

  “Mr. Hildred—may I ask you something?”

  He looked first surprised and then rather pleased.

  “My dear Miss Trent, of course, of course.” There was a moment when Sarah wondered whether the “Miss Trent” would be forthcoming, but there it was, quite conventional and proper. Uncle Geoffrey’s blue eyes beamed affectionately upon her as he assured her that he was at all times at her disposal. “Anything I can do, or anything you want to know.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Hildred, it’s very nice of you. I want to ask you something about Lucilla. Is she very imaginative?”

  Uncle Geoffrey looked distressed. His beaming gaze clouded a little.

  “Now what exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I say.” Why must people always beat about the bush? None of the Hildreds seemed to be able to give a plain answer to a plain question.

  “Imaginative? You don’t by any chance mean—untruthful, Miss Trent?”

  Sarah didn’t start, because she wouldn’t let herself start. She had the impulse, but she controlled it. She looked down the long room. Miss Marina was knitting. Lucilla leaned shoulder to shoulder with Ricky at the card-table, where Mr. Brown was doing a trick. She seemed a happy, care-free child.

  There was a little angry warmth in Miss Trent’s voice as she said,

  “I meant just what I said—is Lucilla imaginative?”

  He seemed to find it difficult to answer her.

  “I don’t know—it is so difficult to define. It depends on what you mean by imaginative. Do you, for instance, mean the power to visualize something that really exists, or do you mean a faculty for being obsessed by what has no existence at all?” He looked at her very gravely, and again Sarah was startled.

  “Mr. Hildred—what are you implying?”

  His voice was as serious as his look.

  “I am not implying anything at all—I am trying to clarify your question.”

  “You haven’t answered it,” said Sarah bluntly.

  “I think you must answer it yourself,” said Geoffrey Hildred, and with that he crossed the room and pined the group at the table.

  Mr. John Brown could do the most amazing card-tricks. He had a quiet, easy patter and a quickness of hand that defied detection. The evening passed very pleasantly.

  When he said good-night, Mr. Brown looked at Sarah with the same hint of amusement which had annoyed her so much in the wood and said,

  “I think there is a friend of yours at the Cow and Bush.”

  “Of mine?”

  Sarah was so astonished that she forgot to draw her hand away. John Brown held it in the same light, firm clasp with which he would have held any small creature such as a bird or a mouse. He was an adept at holding things so that they could neither hurt themselves nor get away. He held Sarah’s hand, and felt her start when he said in his pleasant, quiet voice,

  “Isn’t Mr. Darnac a friend of yours?”

  “Ran!” said Sarah, stupified. Then s
he remembered about her hand and pulled it away.

  “If that is what you call him”—said John Brown, “He said he was hoping to see you to-morrow.”

  “Well!” said Sarah when he was gone. “Of all the impudence!”

  Ricky sniggered, Lucilla giggled, and everyone looked at Miss Trent in an interested way.

  Her colour rose with pure rage. How dared Ran came down to Holme like this? It wouldn’t lose her her job, but it might have done. She thanked heaven that Aunt Marina was looking benevolent—Uncle Geoffrey not quite so benevolent, but quite land.

  “A friend of yours, my dear?” enquired Miss Marina. “And I don’t know if I quite caught the name.”

  “Darnac,” said Sarah—“Bertrand Darnac. He’s a nephew of Major Manifold’s, and it’s like his nerve to come down here without being asked. I hope you really do believe that I didn’t ask him.” She spoke to Aunt Marina, but she looked at Uncle Geoffrey. He was frowning.

  “If this man is annoying you—”

  Sarah’s flush was subsiding, but her laugh still sounded angry.

  “Oh, he’s perfectly harmless. Just a bit of a brat, you know.”

  “Darnac?” said Miss Marina. “Now that sounds French. But if he is Major Manifold’s nephew—”

  “Major Manifold’s sister married a Frenchman called Darnac—an old Huguenot family. This lad’s over here partly to put a polish on his English, and partly—” She hesitated for a moment and then decided on frankness. After all it was only what everyone knew. “Well, partly because the Darnacs and the Manifolds both hoped that he and Eleanor would take a fancy to each other.”

  “My dear—first cousins!” said Miss Marina, scandalized.

  “Well, it’s the property,” said Sarah. “Eleanor will have a lot of money, but the place goes to Bertrand unless the Manifolds have a son. Old Mr. Manifold left it that way. He was very fond of Ran.’