Kingdom Lost

by Patricia Wentworth

  He went to put back the torch, and caught sight of Valentine’s suit-case. Immediately red wrath flamed up in him. She’d run away and leave her beastly luggage, would she? He wasn’t an hotel—no, he was dashed if he was an hotel. He’d show her. He took the suit-case by the handle and hove it over the paling into the water. It landed with a splash among the reeds a dozen feet away, and sank in the mud. The beam of the torch showed just a corner sticking up.

  Mr. Sloan nodded approvingly and got into his car and drove away.

  Valentine, crouched down on the other side of the hedge, heard him go past muttering. Then she stood up, and wondered where she was. The ground sloped up from the hedge, and it was very rough and uneven; there were bushes and tangly things that caught her ankles and pricked them. Suddenly she ran into a tree. It was so dark—thick, blanketing darkness. Things touched you, and you couldn’t see them. There was no difference between the trunk of the tree, whose bark rasped your hand, and the damp, black air on either side of it.

  By one such tree Valentine halted. It had a branch that ran out from the trunk on a level with her shoulder. She climbed on to the branch, and found there was another close to it, but a little higher. These two branches and the trunk made a safe enough seat. She sat on the lower branch and leaned back into the angle between the upper one and the trunk. Just before she shut her eyes she saw a beam of light go sliding down the road below her. It slipped away and disappeared. The throbbing of the engine died away in the distance. Mr. Sloan and his car were gone.

  Valentine slept in her tree with her shoulders against a thick branch, and her head leaning against the trunk, the little red hat between her and the rough bark.

  She slept, and she dreamt about the island. It was a new dream. She saw the island very far away, like a black speck at the end of a long bright beam which traversed a dark and tossing sea. On either side of the beam the waves came up with high silver crests, to fall splashing and thunderous. But the beam made a straight gold path, and Valentine moved along it dry-shod and not afraid. She went sliding over the gold faster and faster, and the island rushed to meet her. And then, all at once, when she came near the island, the golden path came to an end, and a great black wave caught her up and reared itself higher and higher until it overtopped the height of the cliff. Valentine hung on the crest of it and looked down on the palm-trees and the pool. And someone was calling her: “Valentine—Valentine—Valentine!” And then the dream changed and she saw Timothy looking at her. And he said, “Valentine!” Then she woke up.

  Just at first she didn’t know where she was, and she nearly fell. Then she remembered, and sat up and stretched herself. It was still quite dark, and the wood was very still. Nothing stirred, because nothing was awake except Valentine. She shifted her position, and dozed again. This time she did not dream; but she woke suddenly with a start, because she heard Timothy say, “Valentine!” But when she looked about her, there was only a lonely greyness everywhere. The night was thinning away. Faint ghostly shapes of tree and bush showed in the waning dusk. Halsey Mere lay like a clouded mirror under the brightening sky. It would be dawn soon.

  Valentine thought how hungry she was, and wondered when she would be able to get something to eat. She was stiff, and a little cold; and all her clothes seemed to have got into the wrong places. She sat leaning against the trunk of the tree, and watched the sun come slowly up out of the mists beyond the lake.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  Mrs. Ryven spent the morning at the telephone. From the moment she knew that Valentine had taken a suit-case with her, her courage and presence of mind returned. “Girls who are going to do something dreadful”—she used no plainer words than that—“do not pack and take away a suit-case.” The frightful visions of Valentine broken and crumpled under her own window, or sinking down like Ophelia into muddy waters and tangling weeds, gave place to the resentment which anyone might feel against a girl who had behaved so improperly, so ungratefully. Valentine, running away with a suit-case and leaving Eustace to be the laughingstock of the county, made no demands on Helena’s compunction. A sharp gust of anger swept her mind clear.

  She went in search of Laura Ryven, and found her in comfortable undress. Mrs. James Ryven never got up to breakfast. She considered the morning as a waste and empty space of time in which you couldn’t play bridge—unless, of course, you were on a voyage.

  She looked across her breakfast tray at Helena with a lively curiosity.

  “My dear Helena, what on earth has happened? Agnes says—”

  Helena frowned. Her manner indicated that she did not expect her housemaid’s remarks to be retailed to her. She said in a repressive tone,

  “I am afraid that the wedding will have to be put off.”

  “Put off?” said Mrs. James with raised eyebrows. “Helena—for goodness’ sake—has she run away, or hasn’t she?”

  “Valentine has left Holt.”

  “She has run away. Do you know where she’s gone to?”

  Helena left that unanswered.

  “It is all exceedingly painful.”

  “Must be. But, my dear, I could have told you she didn’t care two straws for Eustace. Never saw a girl look so wretched in my life.”

  “I think that is rather exaggerated, Valentine appeared to wish for the marriage. But yesterday—” She hesitated. Laura would have to know. Everyone would have to know.

  “My dear—what?” Mrs. James called everyone “my dear.”

  “Yesterday we had news.” She found it difficult to choose the right words.

  “News?”

  “Very important news. Valentine is not Maurice’s daughter. Edward Bowden left a statement, which has only just reached us. I haven’t time to go into it all, but there seems to be no doubt of the facts this time.”

  “She’s not Valentine Ryven, after all? My dear—how outrageous!”

  Helena shook her head.

  “She didn’t know, of course.”

  “My dear, how awkward!”

  “She wished to break off the engagement.” (Yes, that was the line to take.) “But, naturally, Eustace wouldn’t hear of it, and this morning we found that the foolish child had run away.”

  “Without a word?”

  “She left this note—you can see it if you like.”

  Mrs. James took it eagerly.

  “’M—” she said. “Short and sweet. Only wanted to give the money back. Not very flattering to Eustace. But then, of course, he isn’t in love with her either—is he?” She gave the letter back. “Well, Helena, I’m sorry for all the upset—but I must say I don’t think she was the wife for Eustace, and when this has all blown over you’ll thank heaven she let him off. Who is she, by the way?”

  “We don’t know. She was born on the ship.”

  Helena went downstairs and began the difficult business of putting off some hundreds of wedding guests. By the time she had told her story half a dozen times, it came with an ease which surprised her. She telephoned to all the people who really counted. Most of them responded with friendly concern. Valentine receded.

  When Timothy came in at half-past twelve with an abrupt “Any news?” she really was, just for the moment, at a loss. She put up a hand, and finished what she was saying into the telephone:

  “Yes, of course—one does feel that. It’s terrible for him now. But, as you say—”

  “Helena! My God! What’s happened?”

  She shook her head impatiently and continued speaking:

  “Yes, indeed—as you say, one lives to be thankful. Good-bye.”

  She hung up the receiver and turned.

  “What is it, Timothy?”

  “Is there news? What were you saying? What’s terrible?”

  Helena raised her eyebrows.

  “There’s no news. I was alluding to Eustace’s position.”

  Timothy recovered himself. The last three hours had brought him to a state where a chance word could shake him as he had never been shaken in his life. H
e looked at Helena in astonishment. This morning she had appeared to be on the edge of a break-down; now she wore the pleasantly capable air of the woman who feels that emergencies are provided in order that she may display her command of them. She held a list of guests, and was ticking off those who had been dealt with. A “W” indicated a wire; the letter “T” a telephone call.

  She said “Where have you been?” rather absently, and put a T against the name of Lady Mary Weare.

  “I’ve been up and down the roads, and through the villages. No one’s seen her. I’ve tried all the stations too. She’s either quite near by, or she’s got away in a car. Ida hasn’t rung up again, I suppose?”

  “Yes—just now. She wanted to know if she should come down, and I said certainly not.”

  “If—when I find her—I shall take her to Ida,” said Timothy abruptly.

  Helena turned round from the telephone.

  “You will take her!”

  “Yes.”

  “We ate very glad of your help, of course. But you are rather, shall I say, assuming a responsibility which I don’t think really belongs to you.”

  “Doesn’t it?” He gave a short laugh. “I think it belongs to me as much as to anyone else. You see, you’re not her aunt any more, and Eustace isn’t her fiancé. But I’m still her friend. That’s where I come in.”

  “Friend?” said Mrs. Ryven with a peculiar intonation.

  “Friend means a good deal,” said Timothy. “It means just exactly what Valentine wants it to mean.”

  He went to the door and came back. “I don’t want to quarrel, Helena. We’ve got to live pretty close to each other here, and it’ll save a lot of trouble if you realize that I’m Valentine’s friend. Now we won’t talk about that any more. Where’s Eustace?”

  “He’s gone up to town. He had an idea she might go to Mrs. Bell.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “One of the Community workers. She used to take Valentine round with her.”

  Timothy shook his head.

  “She’d keep clear of anything to do with Eustace.”

  “Eustace thought she might go there.” Helena’s tone was stiff. “There, or to Katherine Hill.”

  “Who’s Katherine Hill?”

  “She used to be Eustace’s secretary. Valentine took an odd fancy to her.”

  “Ring her up,” said Timothy.

  As they waited for the call to come through, he spoke again, forcing his voice:

  “If she isn’t there—we shall have to go to the police, Helena.”

  The telephone bell cut across Mrs. Ryven’s protest. Timothy stretched out his hand for the receiver.

  “I’ll take it. Hullo! Is that Miss Hill—Miss Katherine Hill?”

  “This is Mr. Elderthal’s office,” said a voice. “Do you want to speak to Miss Hill?”

  “I want to speak to Miss Katherine Hill.”

  There was a little click, and a deep voice said “Hullo!”

  “I want to speak to Miss Katherine Hill.”

  Katherine Hill said, “Who is it?” She held the receiver in a steady hand. She had not slept at all the night before. Her face was colourless, her eyes like desolate water. She had been engaged upon an intricate scheme of tent compensation, to which she had brought as much lucid thought and careful accuracy as if there were no such thing as quenched love and broken hope. She said, “Who is it?” and heard Timothy say,

  “My name’s Timothy Brand. You don’t know me. I’m Mrs. Ryven’s brother. I’m ringing up to ask whether you’ve seen or heard anything of Valentine?”

  Katherine looked at the opposite wall. There was an almanac there; it hung a little crooked. The date stared back at her, very black—the sixth of September—Eustace’s wedding day. What should she know about Valentine Ryven?

  She said, “It’s her wedding day,” and heard Timothy say in an urgent voice,

  “No—the marriage is broken off.”

  Katherine did not say anything. She couldn’t. She looked at that black six on the wall, and saw it rush towards her and then recede until it was a tiny point in a white, wet mist. The damp of the mist was on her brow.

  Timothy said, “Hullo! Are you there?”

  Katherine said, “Yes.” She wondered if he heard her. His voice was very insistent.

  “Have you seen Valentine, or heard from her? Do you know where she is?”

  Katherine said, “No.”

  “We thought she might go to you. She’s gone off. We’re very anxious. If she comes to you, will you ring me up and tell her I’m coming to her. Tell her Timothy’s coming. Tell her there’s nothing to be frightened about—no one’s going to make her marry Eustace. Will you tell her that? And will you please take down my number?”

  Katherine took it down mechanically. Then she repeated it, and said in the same breath,

  “Where is Eustace?”

  “He’s gone up to town to look for her. We don’t even know if she’s got any money. He’ll probably come and see you. You’ll ring up at once if you hear anything—won’t you?”

  Katherine heard someone come into the room. She hung up the receiver and turned, to see Eustace standing just inside the door.

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  Valentine walked along the road on very weary feet. The day had lasted for hours and hours and hours, and it was a long time since she had had anything to eat. There had been blackberries on a common, and a cottage where the woman had made her some tea and cut bread and butter when she found that Valentine could pay for it. But that was a long time ago.

  She thought she must be in a very lonely part of the country. The wood where she had slept rose to an open stretch of heath. That was where she had found the blackberries. But there were no houses on it, and she had walked for miles without seeing anyone. When she came to a road, it seemed to go on and on without getting anywhere. She had no idea where she was. But she knew where she wanted to be; she wanted to be at Waterlow with Timothy. If she hadn’t been too frightened to think properly, she would never have run away from Timothy, because he was her best friend, and he would have helped her and have told her what to do. He wouldn’t have made her marry Eustace. A best friend wouldn’t make you marry someone if you were most dreadfully frightened about it.

  She did not walk all the time. She had got used to wearing shoes and stockings, but she had never got used to walking long distances. After a mile or two she had to sit down and rest. You don’t get on very fast like that. The grey day slipped into a grey dusk, and the dark came on.

  She was limping when she came out on a tarred high road with cars passing on it. If it had not been for Mr. Sloan, she might have stopped one then; but some of the ignorant courage had gone out of her. She was hungry, and foot-sore, and homesick for Waterlow.

  The road was very long and dark.

  Timothy came home in the late evening. He had no news, and there was no message waiting for him. He rang up Helena. She had no news either.

  “Eustace is sure she hasn’t gone to London—I’ve just been talking to him. He’s staying up. I wish you’d waited a little longer before going to the police. People will say—”

  “Why should we care what they say? They can say anything they like as long as we find her.”

  Helena’s voice became colder. Valentine had behaved disgracefully. All this publicity. The police. And Timothy in the most intractable mood. She said,

  “You reminded me this morning that we had no authority over Valentine. What can you do if you do find her?”

  “What she wants to do,” said Timothy, and rang off.

  He rang up the County police. No news. “But we’ll ring you up, sir, if anything comes through.”

  He had some food, and spent half an hour trying to read the paper, with so much success that he could not even have told what the headlines were. He had done all that he could do. It was intolerable that there was no more to be done. He would have gone out again if it were not that he might miss a call.

 
; He began to walk up and down the panelled room. Only forty-eight hours before she had been there. In heaven’s name, why had he let her go? He could touch her chair. He could see her sitting in it, with her head thrown back and her hands lying in the lap of her dark dress. Why had he let her go? She had looked at him with a most piteous appeal, and he had taken her back to Holt and kept away from her all day. Where was she? Where had she gone? Why, they didn’t even know if she had any money. And she was such a child, such a blessed innocent child.

  He went to the long windows and looked out. A dark, cloudy night, warm and heavy with rain to come. Not a breath moved. The lightest air made a stir among the willows all along the stream. But there was no air stirring to-night. The willows were still, and the stream was still. The light from the yellow lamp threw a beam upon the nagged path and its border of cobblestones; it showed an autumn bloom or two on the old yellow rose that covered this side of the house. The roses hung down and touched the posts of the door. They looked pale in the yellow light. All the rest of the garden was hidden.

  Timothy stood listening, and heard the silence.

  When the telephone bell rang, he started. He had been keyed up for the sound—expecting it; but when it came, it made him jump. The bell sounded unnaturally loud.

  He took off the receiver and said “Hullo!”

  A man’s voice said hoarsely, “Hullo!”

  “Who’s there?”

  The hoarse voice said “Hullo!” again.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Hullo! County police speaking.”

  “Yes—what is it?”

  Someone coughed at the other end of the line, and inquired deliberately:

  “Is that Mr. Brand?”

  “Speaking. What is it?”

  “Well, Mr. Brand—Inspector Wennock speaking—with regard to the young lady that’s disappeared—” He paused and coughed again.

  “Yes. Go on! What is it?”

  “With regard to Miss Valentine Ryven—the fact is, something’s been found.”

  Timothy’s hand closed hard on the receiver.

  “What’s been found?”