Touch and Go

by Patricia Wentworth

  The shoulder which Sarah was watching went up in a shrug.

  “I do not admit that there was anything to recognize.”

  “Well, as it happens, there is. I want you to understand that I can prove who I am. I can prove my case right up to the hilt. I think you will remember Eversley—Ronald Eversley.… Yes, I see you do. Well, I’ve been in touch with him all along. He has always known where I was and what I was doing. We corresponded quite regularly. I saw him in Philadelphia just before I came over—in fact he came there to see me. He said it was time I came home, and—well, I came. He had other business in the States, so I didn’t wait for him. He’s due in London at the end of this week. You see, I’m putting my cards on the table. Eversley’s an unassailable witness. When you didn’t seem to recognize me, I thought I’d wait till he arrived.”

  Sarah, watching all she could see of Geoffrey Hildred, received an impression of rigidity. His voice came hard from a dry throat.

  “And you are not waiting. May I ask why?”

  “I don’t think I should,” said John Brown.

  “Don’t you? What do you mean by that?”

  “I shouldn’t ask that either, Geoffrey. Let us say that when I first came over I hadn’t made up my mind, and that now I have. It might have suited me to stay dead, but since I came down here I have decided against it. I naturally hasten to inform you of my decision—as Lucilla’s guardian, and in Lucilla’s interests.” He stressed the last words so sharply that Sarah’s pulses leapt.

  Geoffrey Hildred made a movement which took him out of her field of vision. She thought he leaned forward. She heard him repeat the words that had been so stressed.

  “Lucilla’s interests?” His voice was smooth again. The thought came to her that it was too smooth.

  “Oh yes,” said John Brown. “Lucilla’s interests must of course be your first concern—and mine. You may trust me to safeguard them in every possible way. It is on this account that I thought it would be best to have an informal talk with you now, instead of waiting till Ronald Eversley arrives at the end of the week. In order to satisfy you personally of my identity I want to ask you to carry your mind back to the holiday we all spent at Woolacombe in 1913. We were all there. Ricky was a baby of three. Do you remember the little Jap we used to call Koko, and how people were tumbling over each other to be tattooed by him? He was a wonderful artist.… Ah, I see you remember him. You had a butterfly done on your left arm just above the elbow. We boys couldn’t run to butterflies, but each of us had his initial done on the fore-arm. Here’s mine, Geoffrey—and I think you’ll admit that it’s evidence.”

  Sarah would have given almost anything she possessed to have been able to see through the curtain. She couldn’t see, but she could hear—and how inadequate it is to hear when you want to see. The rustle of cloth—a sleeve being pulled up. A rustle of paper—Geoffrey Hildred bent forward, straining across the table, crumpling some bill or letter. A step on the carpet, a forward step—John Brown coming forward with his bare arm held out. She made that much of it. And then Geoffrey Hildred came suddenly into sight. He had sprung up. She heard his chair go over with a crash. She saw a narrow strip of his face between the crimson of the curtains, and what she saw was almost as darkly red. The angle of the brow, the eye cheek and chin were all blood-shot and suffused. The glimpse horrified her and was gone. In the silence which followed he spoke in a voice of controlled rage.

  “Evidence? A faked initial! The easiest fake in the world! You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Brown.”

  John Brown laughed a little.

  “Why, so I can—a great deal better. I told you that was just for your private edification. It edifies you all right—doesn’t it? Now listen to me, Geoffrey. I’ve given you what is proof to yourself. You know it, and I know it. And you know why I’ve come forward to give it you now. If you don’t, sit down and think it out, and then get hold of this. I have no desire to wash the family linen in public. I am considering Lucilla’s interests, and I should like you to conclude that they are your interests too. Goodnight.”

  He came straight to the window. Sarah, leaning there, one hand on the frame of the open leaf, was off her balance and off her guard. She had to straighten up, swing round, and spring aside. She reached the lower step as the red curtain lifted and the light came past her in a broad shining beam. John Brown came out with the light. It shone past him and he was black against it. She could see his face like a silhouette She did not dare to move, or breathe, or think, lest he should be aware of her. The curtain dropped. The light went out. The window was banged and harshly locked from within.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  John Brown came down the two steps on to the gravel before the house. He passed Sarah on the second step, passed her within a foot where she stood as still as a bit of stone and very nearly as cold. There was no feeling in her hands and feet, there was no feeling in her whole body, and she had stopped being able to breathe. But he had passed her. He had stepped down on to the gravel. She heard it grate under his foot as he stepped forward. And then she heard it grate again as he swung round. He had an arm about her before she knew that she was discovered, and if she had not been so set and rigid, she might have cried out. As it was, she caught the breath which she had not been able to draw, and the arm came about her hard and strong, jumped her down from the step, and marched her along to the corner of the house and around it.

  Ricky’s windows were lighted still.

  He took her along the side of the house, down the steps at the end of the terrace, and into the shrubbery, all without a single word. When they were in amongst the bushes, he swung her about, put his other arm round her too, and said,

  “Eavesdropping, Sarah?”

  Sarah had nothing to say. She had transgressed her own code. She was ashamed. And she would have done it again next minute. She simply hadn’t got anything to say.

  John Brown shook her a little.

  “Well? How much did you hear?” There was the old amusement in his voice.

  Sarah had an answer to that. It wasn’t a very brilliant one. She said,

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well now, how do you mean you don’t know?”

  She plucked up a little spirit.

  “I don’t know how much I missed.”

  This time he laughed outright.

  “You shameless creature! How did you know I was there?”

  “I was looking out of my window—I mean the blue room window, the one that looks this way—and I heard you coming across the gravel.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I thought it was.”

  “And you came down and eavesdropped on the chance?”

  “No, I didn’t. I went into the room over the study—it’s an empty bedroom—and looked out, and I heard you knock on the study window just beneath me. Then Mr. Hildred opened it and I saw you go in. And then I just had to come down.”

  “I see. You had to come down. And just how far had we got when you came down?”

  Sarah leaned back against the hands that were holding her. She was neither frightened nor cold any more. She had the feeling that they were both being carried down the rushing current of a stream which was taking them fast and far. She abandoned herself to its flow. She heard John Brown repeat the question.

  “How far had we got?”

  “The door was open,” said Sarah.

  “Yes, I noticed that. Where had we got to when you arrived? What were we saying?”

  “You were saying, ‘Well, Geoffrey?’”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t recognize you.” She laid her hands suddenly against his breast. “Who was he to recognize? John—won’t you tell me?”

  He paused, laughed, tightened his hold upon her.

  “Oh, you didn’t hear that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “But you heard all the rest?”

  “Yes.” Her head lifted. “I c
ould hear very well.” Then, with a pressure of her hands upon him. “Who are you?”

  John Brown used a new voice. She had never heard it before. It touched something that lay deep in her—the cold, hurt place which was afraid of loving because it was afraid of being hurt again.

  The new voice said, “Sarah—” very gently. And then, “Sarah—” again. And then, “Does it really matter?”

  And Sarah said, “No,” and somehow or other she found that her arms were round his neck and that they were kissing each other.

  It was all very confused and incoherent after that. She found that she was crying, and this surprised her very much, partly because she never cried, and partly because it was completely insensate to cry when the most wonderful thing in the world had just happened. And the wonderful thing was not that John loved her, or even that she loved John, but that she wasn’t any longer afraid of loving. The cold, sore place was gone and she wasn’t afraid of it any more. Wonderful to feel all light, and warm, and whole again. Completely and absolutely idiotic to cry.

  There was an interval. John comforted her. She had never had anyone to comfort her since she was ten years old. John did it beautifully.

  The interlude lasted rather a long time. Presently Sarah said,

  “Aren’t you going to tell me who you are? It doesn’t matter, of course, but I would rather like to know.”

  “Who do you think I am?” said John Brown.

  “I thought you might be Maurice, but—”

  “I told you Maurice was dead.”

  “Yes, I know. But you did say in the study that you hadn’t made up your mind whether you would stay dead or come alive again.”

  “I’m not Maurice, Sarah. Guess again.”

  She laughed a little, her head against his shoulder.

  “Well, to-night Lucilla was quite sure you were Henry. She was awfully glad, because if you were, she’d get rid of Holme Fallow and all the rest of it.”

  His voice came quick and pleased.

  “Did she say that? I’m glad.”

  “Yes. Are you—are you Henry?”

  “No, my dear, I’m not.”

  “John, aren’t you going to tell me who you are?”

  He said “Yes.” And then, “Not here. Will you be cold if we go down to the seat by the tennis court? I’d like to get away from the house and the drive.

  Cold? She was springing with warm life. There was no such thing as cold. She said with a laugh in her voice,

  “Oh no, I shan’t be cold.”

  They went down to the tennis court under a clear night sky that was bright with stars. The grass court looked like dark water. They found the seat and sat down upon it. He took both her hands and held them. They could not see each other except as shadows, but their hands clung and were warm. He said,

  “Sarah, why did you or anyone else think that I belonged here? Why did you think I was Maurice, or Henry? Why did you think I was a Hildred at all?”

  Sarah’s heart beat hard. Her voice sounded low and confused.

  “I don’t know. You were in Holme Fallow that night. I couldn’t believe you were a burglar. I saw you looking at Mrs. Hildred’s picture. And then Ran said he had seen you looking at the pictures too. He said you were like the Hildreds, and he was sure you were Maurice. You know Miss Marina talks about them all until you can’t help thinking about them by their Christian names.”

  “And why did Lucilla think I was Henry?”

  Sarah laughed.

  “I’ve stopped asking why Lucilla does anything. She said she thought you were speaking the truth about not being Maurice, and she said you were like Eleanor Hildred, her grandmother.”

  “I see. But why Henry? Eleanor Hildred had three sons, Sarah,”

  Sarah caught her breath.

  “Three—yes. But you—”

  “I’m Jack.”

  “John!”

  “Yes—John Hildred—Jack—Lucilla’s father.”

  Sarah said something quite inarticulate. And then her hands were being kissed.

  “Sarah—you don’t mind? It won’t make any difference? It’s pretty awful to have a daughter who’s nearly eighteen. Do you mind it very much?”

  “Silly!” said Sarah in rather a choked voice. “Oh, John, don’t! I want you to tell me—I don’t understand.”

  “My darling, I am telling you. It makes me feel much too old for you, having a grown-up daughter.”

  “I’m twenty-eight,” said Sarah. “I’m not really young at all.”

  “And I’m thirty-eight, so what about me?”

  Sarah said, “Just right.”

  There was another interlude.

  When it was over, she drew away as far as his arm would let her and said,

  “You haven’t told me very much yet—have you?”

  He answered her with a grave “No,” and paused upon it. He had not been Jack Hildred for seventeen years. Seventeen years is a long gap to bridge. On the other side of it there was the boy not much older than Lucilla was now—eager, young, undeveloped. No wonder he paused. It wasn’t easy to think back and be Jack Hildred again. He wondered if Sarah was going to understand.

  She waited, leaning against him, and presently he began to speak, so quietly that no one could have guessed at the effort he was making.

  “There were the three of us—you know that—Henry, myself, and Maurice. My father was killed out hunting when we were children, I can just remember it. My mother died two years before the war. We lived at Holme Fallow with my grandfather.”

  Sarah drew away a little. She didn’t belong to those years. She thought it would be easier for him to tell her if she were not touching him.

  He went on as if he had not noticed her withdrawal.

  “I was nineteen when the war broke out. I was just going up to Cambridge. I had a fancy for the bar.” He laughed a little. “You never can tell—can you? I got a commission instead—Kitchener’s Army—Tenth Sandshires. We went out in May 1915, and a week before I went I was married to Lucy Hill. Wickedly unfair of course, but everyone was doing it and the old man pushed it on. Henry was in France already, and he wanted to feel sure that Holme Fallow wouldn’t go to Geoffrey. He always hated Geoffrey like poison, though he left all his affairs in his hands. Well, there it was, Sarah. I was twenty, and she was eighteen. She was an orphan. She used to come and stay with cousins at Burdon. We fell in love. If it hadn’t been for the war, we should have had to fall out of it again. As it was, we married amidst public applause, and Lucilla was born at the end of January 1916. In July I was blown up. I can’t tell you how it happened, because I’ve never remembered. I suppose it was a mine. Anyhow I was reported killed, though I didn’t find that out till afterwards. When I came round I was in a German hospital, and I hadn’t the faintest idea who I was or how I’d got there. There was a J. tattooed on my arm, and there was an identification disc knocking about which said I was Private John Brown, 12th East Yorks.”

  “Why?” said Sarah.

  “Well, I’ve often tried to figure it out. I was stark naked when they picked me up—one of the orderlies told me that. I can only suppose that the identity disc was there, and that someone thought it belonged to me. I couldn’t contradict them, because my memory was clean gone. I was quite sane and I wasn’t badly damaged, and presently they drafted me off to a German prison camp, and there I was for the best part of two years.”

  The grimly compressed narrative gave Sarah a feeling of horror. War. The things that happen in war. The blowing up of a mine. “I was stark naked.” “The identity disc happened to be there.” And the man to whom it had belonged—the real John Brown.… She shuddered away from the pictures which floated on that dark background of horror.

  He went on speaking.

  “That’s where I met the man I’ve been working with all this time. He was an American bug-hunter who’d enlisted in our army quite early on. He said it was because he wanted to study insect life in France, and as there were a lot of armies
messing about all over the map just where he wanted to go, he thought the best way of getting there was to enlist. He’d been about a month in the camp when I came along, and we palled up at once. His name was George Eckhard and he is one of the very best. I’d always been keen on birds and beasts and insects, and he got me a lot keener. He said if the war ever did come to an end, we’d go round the world together and write a book. He was pretty useful with a camera, but he couldn’t draw a line. When he found that I wasn’t a bad hand with a pencil and brush, he got frightfully keen. We used to yarn away about it for hours and plan where we’d go. It made the time pass. I’m telling you this so that you’ll understand what happened afterwards.”

  “Two years—” said Sarah. “How awful!”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a bad camp as camps went. We were treated quite decently. But of course prison is prison, and we didn’t want to stay there. I escaped once, and George escaped once. He got shot in the ankle, and I didn’t get very far. After that we thought we’d make a try at it together, but we had to wait for his ankle to get right, and it took a long time. We got away in the end and over the Dutch frontier—I’ll tell you about it another time. We got back to England. It was August 1918, and we both got pushed off to France before we had time to turn round, George to some umpteenth battalion of his regiment, and I to mine—to John Brown’s. I needn’t go into all that. I was in a lot of scrapping, but I never got a scratch, and I went on being John Brown.”

  “You didn’t remember anything?”

  “Not a thing. My memory began in that German hospital. That identity disc said I was John Brown, and the J. on my arm bore it out. I don’t think I bothered about it. Well, the Armistice came along. After that we were waiting to be demobbed. In January I ran into George Eckhard again. He reminded me about going round the world with him and gave me an address in London that would always find him. We fixed to meet there when we got out of the army. I got out in May.” He paused. A long minute went by.