Touch and Go

by Patricia Wentworth

  She pursued the path until she thought she had gone far enough, and then left it to cut through the shrubbery to a point on the edge of the gravel from which she reckoned she would get a good view of the east window of Lucilla’s room. She passed between a bush of holly and a bush of bay, and at that moment the moonlight dimmed and went out. Where there had been black shadow and bright light there was only an even gloom. She moved through it with her hands stretched out before her and the oddest feeling that she was wading. It was as if she, and the trees, and the bushes had all been plunged into the sudden depths of some impalpable sea whose dark tides lifted and fell far, far above and out of reach. She could not see at all, she could only feel.

  She moved on a step at a time with outstretched hands.

  They felt smooth shiny leaves.

  They felt rough bark.

  They felt twigs.

  They felt holly prickles.

  They felt the cold, hard contour of a man’s cheek.

  Sarah stopped dead with the feel of it tingling all up her arm. Her lips parted in a gasp. And immediately before her in the darkness a voice said, “Please don’t scream.”

  Sarah gasped again. She recognized the voice, and she didn’t recognize it. It was Mr. John Brown’s voice. But Mr. John Brown had an American accent, and this voice had no accent at all. And as she steadied herself, it came to her that she had heard the voice in the dark before, when she had held up a car at the east gate of Holme Fallow and a stranger had let her have a fill-up of petrol for The Bomb. The voice said softly but firmly,

  “It’s all right, Miss Trent.”

  Sarah was as angry as she had ever been in her life. How dared he lurk? How dared he tell her not to scream? She said in a whisper of passionate rage,

  “What are you doing here?”

  He had come nearer. He spoke from an inch or two above her left ear. He said,

  “I might ask you that.”

  Sarah was now quite sure that he was Mr. Brown, and almost as sure that he was the stranger whom she had stopped. She thought the American accent was creeping back again. Do you have an accent in a whisper? It wasn’t really a whisper; it was a soft, uncarrying tone. Do you take an accent on and off again? Not unless you have something to conceal. If he hadn’t something to conceal, why hadn’t he said at once that they had met before? He had seen her all right, because she had stood right in the head-lights of his car. These thoughts whirled angrily through her mind. She said, quite low but with evident fury.

  “You haven’t answered me—and you’ve got to answer me. What are you doing here at this time of night hiding in the shrubbery?”

  “Hiding?” said Mr. Brown.

  “Lurking,” said Sarah. “And if I had screamed and roused the house, I should like to know what you would have had to say?”

  “It would have been awkward,” confessed Mr. Brown, but there was no awkwardness in his voice, which sounded frankly amused and quite definitely American. “I’m very glad you didn’t scream. You will remember that I asked you not to. I should like to congratulate you on your self-control.”

  “Thank you,” said Sarah. “And now will you please tell me what you were doing here.”

  There was the slightest of pauses before he said,

  “Yes, I think I’ll tell you. I think I should have told you to-morrow anyhow if there had been a good opportunity. If you don’t mind, I’ll begin at the beginning.”

  “I don’t mind where you begin,” said Sarah with her chin in the air.

  Mr. Brown began to speak in a quiet, serious voice.

  “This is Friday. I’ve been at the Cow and Bush since last Saturday. You, I believe, arrived on the Monday.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, on the Monday evening I was walking through the grounds of this house. Perhaps evening is not quite correct—it was as late as this or a little later.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “Oh, just walking,” said Mr. Brown. “You know I have Mr. Hildred’s permission to wander wherever I like.”

  “I don’t suppose he meant the Red House shrubberies at midnight.”

  “I don’t suppose he did. If you really want an explanation, I daresay I could find one, but it would be rather a waste of time. The actual point is that I was here on Monday night. I was standing a little nearer the house on the edge of the drive, when I heard a sound which attracted my attention. It was a sort of thud, and it was followed by a second thud, and by the sound of something scraping or clawing against glass. I looked up at the house and I saw a large black object moving against the end window of the first floor.”

  Sarah drew a quick angry breath.

  “Wasn’t it dark?”

  “Fairly.”

  “Then how could you see in the dark?”

  The amusement came back into Mr. Brown’s voice.

  “Well, that just happens to be one of my accomplishments. It’s useful in my job. I just happen to be able to see pretty nearly as well as a cat at night. I couldn’t see what the black thing was, but it was a good deal darker than the window, and it moved.”

  Sarah’s voice changed. The anger went out of it. she said quickly,

  “Was it an owl?”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Mr. Brown.

  “Then what was it?”

  He said, “I can’t tell you that, but I thought I’d like to find out. By the time I got up to the house it was gone. I waited, and it didn’t come back—I waited a good long time. Tuesday night I came again. It was a very dark night. I heard the thud and the scratching sound, but I couldn’t see anything to swear to. I came back on Wednesday, and you know what happened then.”

  Sarah said, “I?”

  “Surely,” said Mr. Brown. “I saw the thing move, and I heard it all right. I think you heard it too. It banged and scratched, and it went away—moved to the right, away from the window, and I lost it. You know I couldn’t see it—I could only see the movement. When it didn’t move, it wasn’t there so far as I was concerned. I waited to see if it would move again, and then all of a sudden the window was lighted up and I saw you come across it. You were pulling the curtains of the other windows, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you came and stood quite close to the lighted window. You stood there a long time. I heard a clock striking in the house. You pulled the curtain.”

  “Well?” said Sarah.

  “Next night nothing happened. To-night you were going to sleep in your own room. Did you come out because you wanted to see whether the Thing would come again?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “Was there anything to see?”

  “Oh yes,”

  “What?” said Sarah breathlessly.

  Mr. Brown laughed a little.

  “There was more light to-night.”

  Sarah could have shaken him.

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing very clearly, I’m afraid—just an impression of—” He broke off sharply. “It’s a pity you didn’t see anything, because of course it’s open to you to believe that I’m telling you a tale to cover up my own tracks.”

  “Yes, you put that very well,” said Sarah. She paused, and quite suddenly words rushed to her lips. “Someone’s playing tricks on Lucilla.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Brown—“yes. Oh decidedly. Now what conceivable reason could I have for wanting to scare a child like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sarah. “I daresay I could think of a reason if I tried hard enough.”

  “Well, well,” said Mr. John Brown. His tone made Sarah very angry indeed. She came within an ace of stamping her foot as she said,

  “If it comes to that, why should anyone else play tricks on her?”

  “I don’t know,” said John Brown—“but I’d like to.” His voice became brisk and businesslike. “There are four windows on this side of the house. The one at the end is Lucilla’s. Do you mind telli
ng me what the others are?”

  “The bathroom comes next,” said Sarah. “Then a spare room—there isn’t anyone in it at present. And then Ricky’s room.”

  “Ricky’s—” said Mr. Brown in a meditative voice. “What do you think of Ricky, Miss Trent?”

  “I think he’s a dreep,” said Sarah with decision.

  “A likely practical joker?”

  “I shouldn’t have thought so.” After a moment she added, “He moons about after Lucilla, and sulks when she snubs him. She isn’t taking any, I’m glad to say. You wouldn’t expect a moony dreep to go playing practical jokes, but you never can tell.”

  “No,” said John Brown, “you never can tell.” And then very suddenly he asked, “Is Lucilla frightened?”

  “Not now.”

  “She was at first, but she isn’t now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Sarah hesitated.

  “Please tell me, Miss Trent.”

  “Mr. Brown—” said Sarah, and then stopped.

  “Please, Miss Trent.”

  “There’s something horrid about it,” said Sarah in a hurrying voice. “It feels horrid—it doesn’t feel like a practical joke. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but Lucilla stopped being frightened when she found that I had heard the Thing too. She was afraid—Mr. Brown, don’t you see what the child was afraid of? And I’ve got the most horrible feeling that that’s what she was meant to be afraid of.” She stopped.

  There was a silence. Then John Brown said,

  “Thank you, Miss Trent. I think you’d better go in now. I think you’d better change rooms again and let the household know you’ve done it. Keep that east window latched, and I don’t think you’ll be bothered. Good-night.”

  He was gone so silently that she never heard him move.

  Her own footsteps sounded unpleasantly loud in her ears as she went back by the way that she had come. The moon was veiled again. The house was like a black rock rising up through a faintly luminous sea. She got in through the window of the servants’ room and latched it behind her.

  When she reached her own room, Lucilla was curled up in the pink bed reading by the light of the rose-shaded bedside lamp. She raised her eyebrows at Sarah and pursed her lips.

  “My dear Miss Trent!” The tone was a creditable imitation of Aunt Marina’s.

  “And what are you doing here?” said Sarah, a good deal relieved.

  Lucilla smothered a yawn.

  “It banged, so I came to find you. I don’t like things that bang. Please, angel darling Sarah, I’d like to stay. And I’d love to know where you’ve been. Assignating with our Mr. Brown in the moonlight, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh, Sarah—you blushed! My angel, tell me all!”

  “Don’t be an ass!” said Sarah, laughing.

  CHAPTER XV

  The next day came up with a light mist which cleared before eleven and left a sky of cloudless blue. Geoffrey Hildred went off to town with a good-humoured grumble about people who expected to have their business attended to on a Saturday. Miss Marina talked a great deal about the clinging damp, and urged them all individually and collectively to take plenty of wraps, to be sure not to sit on the ground, to avoid wet feet, and on no account to stay out late. Lucilla said “Yes, darling” to everything in a manner which bespoke long practice, Ricky sneered a little, Sarah promised to take the greatest care of everyone, and in the end they got off, Ricky and Lucilla on bicycles, Sarah prepared to drive Bertrand Darnac, Mr. Brown and the lunch in The Bomb.

  Sarah was wondering a good deal how she would feel when she met John Brown again. Her suspicions had returned upon her in full force, and she simply could not understand why she had talked to him as she had last night. She was quite convinced that the Thing that thudded and scratched upon the window was neither a natural nor a supernatural creature, but some contrivance designed to thud and scratch in order to frighten Lucilla. If you tied a black cushion to the end of a rake or one of those cultivators with curved prongs and climbed to the top of the porch, you could thud and scratch to your heart’s content. And who was so conveniently placed for such a performance as Mr. Brown? There was no dog in the house, and on a dark night the chances of detection would be very small. Mr. Brown was abroad. Mr. Brown, by his own admission, was in the grounds of the Red House on five successive nights. Mr. Brown could move as silently as a cat, and the climbing of the porch would be child’s play to him. What motive he could possibly have, she did not pretend to guess. She was taken up with her own folly in having spoken to him so freely. She had been full of her suspicions, and she had been full of her anger, and then all at once she had talked to him as if he were a friend. She couldn’t imagine why she had talked to him, but it was a certain fact that she had done so. She felt very curious to know what her reactions would be when she met him again.

  She stopped for him and Bertrand at the Cow and Bush, and it was he who came out first. He stood by the door of the car and smiled his pleasant smile, and all at once Sarah felt herself pulled in two opposite directions. Her suspicions pulled her one way, and a sense of spontaneous trust and liking pulled her another. She knew just why she had talked to John Brown as a friend. She had talked to him as a friend because there ran between them a very quick, live sense of friendship. All her thoughts suspected him, and all her feelings trusted him. It was extremely confusing. Her colour deepened as though she were angry, and her brows drew together above eyes that were brighter than usual.

  John Brown looked on with an admiration which appeared to be tinged with amusement. He seemed to be about to speak, but Bertrand Darnac’s sudden appearance stopped the words upon his lips.

  They started, with Bertrand and the lunch behind, and Mr. Brown and a map in front.

  “And to a certainty we shall lose our way. Vois tu, Sarah, it is not at all a clever arrangement that you have made. This Ricky, it is he who should be here with the corners of the lunch-basket running into him whilst he guides you along these roads, which he doubtless knows, as you would say, like the back of your hand.”

  “I don’t say any of these things,” said Sarah dispassionately.

  “That, cher ange, is because you are ignorant of the idiom of your own language. Me, I study to acquire it, and I am already more proficient than you. Beware of jealousy—it is not an amiable trait. It is your favourite uncle, Bertrand surnamed the Wise, who instructs you.”

  “This is where we turn to the left,” remarked Mr. Brown.

  The Bomb went as gaily as Bertrand’s tongue. They passed Ricky and Lucilla, and in the end, after no more than one wrong turning, found themselves climbing Burdon Hill. It is a very long hill, and quite steep enough. It has been known to be too steep for aged or declining cars, but The Bomb took them up it at the top of her form, if with a good deal of noise. They therefore had plenty of time to admire the view and unpack the lunch basket before Ricky and Lucilla arrived, hot with walking their bicycles up the long sunny slope.

  You can see a very long way from the top of Burdon Hill. You can see right away across heath, and wood, and valley, and hill to the blue edges of the horizon. There was not a single cloud in the whole expanse of the sky. There was an autumn air and a summer sun. Everything was very good.

  They lunched, and then they played games—children’s games with forfeits, and Desert Islands, and Stag, which is a most frightfully exhausting game and generally only played by the Very Young. It was Mr. Brown who produced it, and was the first Stag. He promptly caught Lucilla, and hand-in-hand they ran down Bertrand Darnac. Three in a row, they gave chase to Sarah, but Ricky’s long legs eluded the chain of four, and they gave him up, panting.

  “You really want to play it on a tennis-court, and you want more people,” explained John Brown. “We used to—” He broke off abruptly and became absorbed in watching a spider with a round white body and long delicate legs.

  They played Consequences after that, a new and frightfully embarrassing sort which would
have made Aunt Marina’s hair stand bolt upright under her auburn wig.

  Lucilla was in the most gay, excited spirits. She sat hatless in the sun with her hair shining like bright pale gold, her eyes a deeper blue than the sky, and a lovely flush in her cheeks. Bertrand Darnac couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and Ricky’s ill humour became so marked that it surprised none of them when he announced with rudeness that he had had enough of riding a damned second-hand girl’s bicycle, and that someone else could push it home—he was for the car.

  “Who’s going with me?” said Lucilla. “You know, Sarah, you really might call your wretched car something else. Aunt Marina will never let me go in anything called The Bomb.”

  Almost before she had finished her sentence, and before Bertrand Darnac could get his mouth open, John Brown said,

  “Will you have me?”

  If Lucilla was disappointed, she did not show it. She said,

  “Come on, and we’ll race them to the bottom of the hill.’

  “It’s too steep to race. I’m not sure that it isn’t too steep to ride.”

  “Oh, but we always ride it,” protested Lucilla. “It’s all right if you’ve got good brakes.”

  Sarah caught her by the arm.

  “Lucilla, you’re not to race! No, really, I mean. You must promise.”

  There was a mutinous sparkle in the blue eyes. Then all of a sudden Lucilla laughed.

  “You’ll get real governessy lines all over your face if you look like that. I’ve been bicycling since I was six, and what I don’t know about Burdon Hill isn’t worth knowing, but to please my angel darling Sarah I’ll promise not to race.”

  The Bomb got off first, Ricky behind with the empty basket, and Bertrand Darnac by Sarah in front. The descending slope is a gentle one for about five hundred yards. Then the road turns, steepens, and goes sharply down to a couple of bends. For perhaps a quarter of a mile there is overhanging rock on the left and a nasty drop on the right, after which there is a sheltering bank. The Bomb had just reached the steep part of the hill and was in sight of the bends, when Bertrand Darnac cried out and Lucilla flashed past them at a break-neck speed with Mr. Brown following hard behind.