Touch and Go

by Patricia Wentworth

  “I don’t know what he said. Lucilla’s bicycle ran away with her down Burdon Hill, and afterwards, when we were playing Devil-in-the-dark up at Holme Fallow, she nearly fell over the balustrade at the top of the stairs. She would have fallen if Mr. Brown hadn’t caught her.”

  “Good heavens! So Ricky said. But I can’t understand it. The bicycle was new.”

  “The screws that hold the brake-rods were gone.”

  “Yes, yes—he said so. But I can’t understand it at all—a perfectly new bicycle. What could possibly have happened to the screws?”

  It was at this moment that Sarah should most undoubtedly have told Lucilla’s guardian what she had already told Mr. John Brown. Lucilla’s guardian was enquiring what had happened to the screws. They were in the left-hand drawer of the dressing-table in the pink bedroom. She had watched Lucilla put them there after they had fallen out of the pocket of her black cardigan and Sarah had picked them up Doubtless Uncle Geoffrey’s question was a rhetorical one. He did not really expect Sarah to have any answer to it. Or did he? She rushed into a pause which had lasted a little longer than was comfortable.

  “I don’t know what happened. She gave us all a most horrible fright.”

  “Yes—yes—” said Geoffrey Hildred. He walked to the window and back again. “Miss Trent, I am very much concerned about these two accidents. As to the second one, Ricky says she tripped on the top step. Is that correct?”

  “That is Lucilla’s own account, Mr. Hildred.”

  “I see, I see. But when you put your torch on—would you mind telling me exactly what you saw when you put your torch on?” He was anxious enough for her answer. There were beads of sweat at his temples. His eyes looked hard into hers.

  Sarah answered steadily.

  “Lucilla was hanging head downwards over the balustrade. Mr. Brown had hold of her. That’s what I saw when the light went on. She was hanging downwards from the knees, and he was bending right over. He managed to lift her back. She said she had tripped on the top step.”

  “And where did she go over—at what level?”

  “The second or third step,” said Sarah without any expression in her voice.

  Geoffrey Hildred made a sudden startled movement.

  “But that’s not possible, Miss Trent. If she had tripped on the top step, she would have pitched down. She couldn’t possibly have slid across to the balustrade as high up as the second step—it’s quite impossible.”

  Sarah said nothing. She knew that it was impossible, but she said nothing.

  “Where was Brown?” said Geoffrey Hildred in a louder voice. There was a tinge of anger in the loudness and his florid colour had deepened.

  “On the second step, by the pillar—near enough to catch her.”

  “Or to push—No, no, I oughtn’t to say that—there’s no proof. Forget it. I’m too upset to think what I’m saying. It must have been an accident. She must have tripped—not on the top step—that’s impossible—but it was dark—she didn’t know where she was—and she tripped. That’s the explanation. She couldn’t have meant to—No, no, what am I saying? My dear, you must forgive me for having so little command of myself, but Lucilla, she means a great deal to us. I daresay I’m over anxious. I don’t think she’s been leading a very normal life. Losing her parents like that. And then Marina and myself—too old for her altogether. That’s where we count on you. She wants brightening up, taking out of herself. I’d like to get her out of those black clothes. It doesn’t seem right to see a young girl in black. Not colours of course, but surely she could wear grey, and in the evening white. What do you think?”

  “I think it would be a very good idea.”

  He looked pleased.

  “Well then, my dear, I’ll tell you my little plan. I want to carry you and Lucilla off to town. There’s a quiet family hotel we’ve always stayed at—Millington’s. I don’t think there could be any objection to your staying there. They’ve known us all, well, I should say for the last fifty years. I remember Marina stayed there for the old Queen’s first jubilee.”

  “Golly—what a riot!” said Sarah to herself.

  “What do you think?” asked Geoffrey Hildred anxiously.

  What did she think? She didn’t know. It would be pleasant to go shopping with Lucilla. The hotel sounded like the ultimate Arctic frost. There was a pringle of fear down in the depths of her. She had to say something.

  She said, “I think it would be a very good thing,” and at once he was beaming with delighted kindness.

  “Well, there we are—we have our little jaunt! I’ll let you into a secret. I got theatre tickets yesterday—two lots—a musical show for the afternoon, and a play for the evening. And I’ve booked the rooms at the hotel for next Tuesday. I thought just our four selves for the evening—you, and I, and Ricky, and Lucilla—but I got six tickets for the afternoon. I thought it would please Lucilla if we invited young Darnac, and then it seemed a little discourteous to leave Mr. Brown out. I had, in fact, mentioned the project to him, but now I’m inclined to wish—but no, no, there’s nothing to go upon—nothing—nothing at all. There, I won’t keep you any longer—I don’t want to deprive Lucilla.”

  Sarah turned to go with relief, but at the door he called to her.

  “Miss Trent, you won’t mention those accidents—No, no, thank heaven they were not accidents really—but you won’t mention them to Miss Hildred?”

  “Of course not.”

  She had her hand on the door knob, when his voice came again, a little hesitant.

  “Miss Trent—with whom was Lucilla bicycling when the screws were missed? I don’t think Ricky mentioned. Who was with her?”

  “Mr. Brown,” said Sarah, and got out of the room.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  They all went to church, and sat in the squire’s pew, a great square box furnished with red cushions and very fat hassocks. The pew faced sideways to the rest of the congregation, so that when the parson came in and they stood up they could see exactly who had come to church and who had stayed at home. Mr. John Brown sat half way down on the left of the aisle, Mr. Bertrand Darnac a little higher up. He caught Lucilla’s eye, but retained an admirable gravity. Presently an old man preached about the law of kindness. And then they all came out into the October sunshine.

  Lucilla hung back and talked to Bertrand. When she caught Sarah up she had a bright colour and a sparkle in her eye.

  John Brown joined them in the road.

  “Bertrand and I are going for a walk,” said Lucilla. “After lunch, you know—to walk it off. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and horse-radish sauce, also apple pie—and Aunt Marina thinks you’re going to die, if you don’t eat it all. What are you and Sarah going to do?”

  “I am going to sketch by the lower pool,” said John Brown.

  “That’s what I call hogging it. Anyhow Sarah doesn’t sketch.”

  “She can watch me if she likes,” said John Brown kindly. He looked at Sarah and his eyes crinkled at the corners. The smile in them said, “Come.”

  Sarah bit her lip and said she was going to write letters.

  “Which means going to sleep,” said Lucilla. “My angel darling, if you go to sleep after Yorkshire pudding and apple pie and all the rest of it, you’ll be the same size as Aunt Marina before you know what’s happening to you. She has written letters on Sunday afternoon for years and years and years. You’d much better go and watch Mr. Brown sketch. It’s half a mile to the lower pool and uphill all the way back, which is so slimming. Ran and I, being young and active, will probably go at least a quarter of a mile farther.”

  Ricky was apparently not included in anyone’s plans for the afternoon. He had stayed away from church, and appeared at lunch to be in what Lucilla characterised as a foul temper. After lunch Miss Marina retired to her room and Geoffrey Hildred to his study. Ricky, after bickering with Lucilla, took out his father’s car and made off in it, whereupon Lucilla put on her hat and went
down to the gate to meet Bertrand. Sarah caught her up at the turn, and was received without enthusiasm.

  “Did we ask you to come too?” said Lucilla.

  “I’m not coming too—I’m only going to see you start.”

  Lucilla pulled a face.

  “Give handy to Nanna and walk nicely, and take care you don’t fall and spoil your nice Sunday dress,” she said in a mincing voice.

  Sarah looked at her straight.

  “Well, you did fall here once, Lucilla,” she said. “And after yesterday—I’ll see you start with Ran.”

  “A good, trustworthy young man.” Lucilla’s voice was meek, but there was a gleam in her eye.

  “He’d hate to hear you say so. But I think he is—really.”

  Lucilla insisted on holding Sarah’s hand to the bottom of the drive, where they found Bertrand waiting. She went off with him in high spirits.

  Sarah watched them out of sight and considered what she would do next. She had not said that she would go down to the lower pool, but she went. It was in the Holme Fallow grounds, but the road lay between it and the house. There was a stile which shortened the distance, and a path which ran down hill through the fields and skirted an orchard. A few late apples showed among the leaves, which were yellowing too. A gate led into the orchard, and the path went on dropping until it left the trees behind. There were two pools, fed by the tiny trickle of a stream which ran through the middle of the orchard. Lucilla called them Penny Plain and Twopence Coloured. Penny Plain was used for watering the cattle on the grazing land, but Twopence Coloured was given up to water forget-me-not, and tall yellow flags, with a very old crooked willow-tree standing on the east side, where it only kept the early morning sun off the water. The yellow irises were out of bloom long ago, their tall sword-like leaves beginning to turn, but the forget-me-not still bloomed with careless profusion.

  John Brown was not merely sketching the forget-me-not. He was drawing the portrait of a very large and brilliant dragon-fly which hung above the water. He had a long pale green body tipped with blue, poised motionless amid the unceasing and almost invisible motion of four gauzy wings. Every now and then he darted here, there, away, and back again, and at every turn there was a faint clang as the wings touched. The portrait was a very faithful one. Sarah stood looking at it.

  “But you can’t paint that stillness in the midst of movement,” said John Brown regretfully. “Look how his wings go—and he keeps it up all the time.”

  “He’s awfully like an aeroplane,” said Sarah.

  John Brown looked over his shoulder laughing.

  “That’s putting the cart before the horse, isn’t it?”

  Sarah laughed too.

  “But you know what I mean. Isn’t it awfully late for dragon-flies?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s why I wanted to catch this gentleman. They only show up when it’s sunny.”

  The dragon-fly dropped suddenly to the point of a dipping iris leaf, hovered a moment, and settled. For the first time the bewildering misty motion of the wings ceased. They stood out straight and stiff, clear as the wings of a gnat but with a bronzy iridescence. The weight of the apple-green body brought the leaf’s sword-point down and down until it almost touched the drift of forget-me-not. Turquoise of the flowers, bright pale green and metallic blue of the dragon-fly, green and yellow iris leaves, and all the water colours of the pool, glowed together in the very clear, thin gold of the October sunlight. Sarah caught her breath at the sheer beauty. It stayed like that between that one caught breath and the next. Then the creature was off again, fanning the air with almost invisible wings, now poised, now darting.

  “Well?” said John Brown, still with a smile in his eyes. “Are you glad you came, Sarah?”

  Sarah nodded. Just for the moment everything was quite simple, and clear, and happy. There were no problems. It was a nice world, with green and blue dragon-flies, and a crooked willow tree, and a fine Sunday afternoon. Sunday afternoons ought always to be fine.

  She sat down on the bank above the pool and said,

  “Why can’t things be just like this always?”

  “You like this?” He had a little the air of being in his own house and pleased with the pleasure of a guest.

  She nodded without speaking.

  “Do you feel at home here?”

  She nodded again. There was a half smile on her lips, but no words. And then he said,

  “Where are you really at home, Sarah? Tell me about your own people.”

  And with that the charm broke.

  He saw her flinch and lose colour, and at once she was angry because he had taken her unawares. Her voice was clear and hard as she answered him.

  “I haven’t any people.”

  “Then you’re like me,” said John Brown.

  “I don’t think so,” said Sarah. “I should think I’m unique.” She laughed a little. “I’ve got a mother, but I never see her, and I’ve got a father, but he never sees me. I’m an entirely independent woman, and sometimes I’m particularly thankful for it, and sometimes it’s a bit bleak—when you haven’t got a job and wonder how long the cash is going to last. Frankly, that’s the only thing that stops me packing up and lighting out of here to-morrow.”

  Sarah was not really being frank at all. The consciousness of this made her put her chin in the air and look defiantly at John Brown. He said,

  “I don’t think that’s true. I think you’re fond of Lucilla.”

  Sarah’s colour rose becomingly.

  “I don’t get fond of people,” she said, still in that clear, hard tone.

  He looked at her with the faint air of amusement which always made her angry.

  “Is that because of your icy disposition, or because you find us—” He paused for a word, and then said, “unlovable?” He said it quite gravely, and her colour rose again.

  “I don’t let myself got fond of people,” she said. “It doesn’t pay. They let you down, and it hurts—too much.”

  They were so near that he could have touched her, but he did not move, only looked at her and said,

  “Poor Sarah.”

  Sarah looked away across the pool.

  “Do you know what happened to me when I was ten years old? My father divorced my mother. I don’t blame him in the least—he had plenty of reasons for it. But he said I wasn’t his child, and he pushed me out too. He found some old letters and he just turned me out. And we’d been friends. It nearly killed me, and I made up my mind that I’d never love anyone again. It hurts too much.”

  John Brown put out his hand and covered one of hers.

  “Poor little Sarah,” he said.

  She flashed round on him with wet eyes and an unsteady smile.

  “Yes—I’m sorry for her too. She was only ten. I don’t believe you can break your heart as badly afterwards as you do when you’re ten years old. You see, there was nothing left. I had a pony, and a dog—they went too. It was just outer darkness. I’d always hated my mother, and she’d always hated me. We dragged about together for seven years, and then she married the most completely awful of the men who had dragged about after us. I don’t know what would have happened to me if it hadn’t been for a heavenly American woman who was in the same hotel. She had a cripple child, and she took me on to talk French and German to the poor kid. That was my first job, and when she went back to America she got me another—the same sort of thing. And then I went to the Manifolds. And now I’m here, and if I wasn’t an absolute cast-iron fool, I’d leave to-morrow.”

  John Brown’s hand closed on hers very hard. Just when the pressure became unbearable it relaxed again and he lifted the hand to his lips and held it there.

  “I wouldn’t let you down, Sarah,” he said.

  She felt the words against her palm. He kissed them there, and lifted his head and said them again with just a change of tense.

  “Sarah, I won’t let you down.”

  Tears were running down her face. Sh
e felt as if they were taking her pride with them. She dragged her hand away and said,

  “You’ll never have the chance!” Her voice was rough and angry. No one would have recognised it.

  John Brown said quietly, “You’re trying to hurt me because you’ve been hurt yourself. That’s not quite fair.”

  Sarah dabbed at her eyes.

  “You made me—make a fool of myself. I never cry. You made me cry. I’ve been babbling like a lunatic. I really do hate you a good deal, John!”

  He smiled again.

  “Well, that will do for a start. It’s quite a good start really. I’d like to tell you about following you up to town. You see, it was this way—I didn’t see you when you walked in on me the night I was burgling Holme Fallow.”

  Sarah stopped wanting to cry. She passionately desired to know why he had been burgling Holme Fallow. Was he Maurice Hildred? He had said he wasn’t—but was he?

  “What were you burgling?” she asked rather breathlessly.

  “Some letters and photographs,” said John Brown. “Never mind about that—I’ll tell you some day soon. Well, I heard you run away and I turned the torch on you, but you were too quick for me. By the time I reached the dining-room door you were through the passage door across the hall—I only got a bit of brown tweed skirt. Then I thought I had stayed long enough, so I went away by the west drive and round by Miller’s Lane to cut back on to the London road, and when I got round the corner, there you were in the middle of it—” He stopped.

  Sarah said, “Well?”

  John Brown laughed a little.

  “My dear, you had me all mixed up. I was frightfully angry with you for standing out in the road like that, and I could see your brown tweed in the headlights, so I knew you had just come from Holme Fallow. What I didn’t know was whether you’d seen enough of me to recognise, and I thought I’d better find out whether you were heading for the nearest police-station.”

  “Is that why you followed me?” said Sarah. It was rather a damping sort of reason.

  “Probably. Do you believe in love at first sight?”