The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Samovar,” murmured Wynne, “or is that the thing they make it in? Anyhow, if you said ‘Samovar’ I bet they would know what you meant.”

  By this time their guest looked so utterly befogged that Wynne took pity on him.

  “I don’t know how long it will take you to learn to speak like an Englishman,” she said thoughtfully, “the trouble is you speak far too well.”

  “Too well!” he inquired, unable to believe his ears.

  “Much too well,” nodded Wynne. “You talk like a book and use a lot of long words. We’re too lazy to talk like that.”

  “It is necessary that I should learn,” declared Franz anxiously, “so will you please tell me the right way.”

  Wynne said she would try. “But it will be rather difficult,” she added, “because nearly everything you say is just a little bit odd. For instance we wouldn’t say ‘it is necessary that I should learn,’ we’d just say, ‘I really must learn’ or something like that.”

  “I really must learn,” he repeated obediently.

  Wynne smiled at him, and, for a wonder, he smiled back. He had a rather charming smile and for the first time since his arrival she saw that there was something very nice about Franz … it must be frightfully difficult for him, she thought.

  The rest of the evening was passed in looking at photographs. Sophie and her guest sat together on the sofa beneath the standard lamp and waded through several large albums with admirable thoroughness. Wynne, who was endeavouring to read a detective novel, found her thoughts straying from the tangle of clues.… He’s very decent, she thought, he must be bored, but he doesn’t show it at all. She was aware that very few young men would spend a whole evening looking at old photographs.

  But Franz was not bored, he was just as interested as Sophie, and Sophie was in her element.…

  “Yes, that’s Roy,” she was saying. “And here’s one of Eric—isn’t he a darling fat baby?”

  “You have two sons then?”

  “Oh no,” she replied, “Eric isn’t my son, although sometimes I feel that he is. Eric is my brother Tom’s boy but his mother has always been rather queer so Eric used to come here in the holidays. It was nice for Roy to have another boy to play with, and it was really less trouble to have them both here together because they amused each other. You see,” she smiled and added, “Eric looks on Fernacres as his home—which of course it is—because he hasn’t got any other home. My brother is a sailor so he has no home either … and that’s Ethel.”

  “Who is Ethel?”

  “Eric’s mother. She’s very good-looking, of course,” admitted Sophie a trifle grudgingly, “but good looks aren’t everything in this world and poor Tom hasn’t had much comfort out of Ethel … nor has Eric for that matter. Eric was such a dear little boy,” she added sadly.

  “He is dead, then?” asked Franz, misled by her tone.

  “Oh goodness, no!” cried Sophie, “I didn’t mean that when I said he was a dear little boy, I only meant that it was so funny of Ethel not to like to have him with her. Of course he’s quite grown up now and we don’t see him so often. He and Roy are both in the Navy but they never seem to get leave at the same time.”

  “Ah—the Navy!” said Franz, nodding.

  “Yes, both of them,” Sophie said. “Roy is in the Home Fleet at present so he may turn up at any moment, but poor Eric is at Bermuda, so you won’t see him, I’m afraid … but I wanted to show you some pictures of Elsie. They’re in that big red book.”

  The big red book was lifted off the table and opened, and they were off again.

  “There,” said Sophie, “that’s Elsie—your mother—when she was fifteen. The dresses we wore in those days look rather funny now … and the hats … but you can see what lovely hair she had. It was golden, just like Wynne’s, but she wore it down her back in a thick plait. Here we are on the yacht … that’s my brother Tom, and that’s me holding the tiller. What fun we had in those days,” added Sophie with a little sigh.

  Wynne could not get on with her novel. The detective had now proved to his own satisfaction that the tall dark young man had committed the murder, and, as Wynne had taken a violent fancy to the tall dark young man and was perfectly certain that he was blameless, she ought to have been on tenterhooks, but somehow or other she could not concentrate at all.

  “This is you again,” Franz was saying, “you have not altered much, Cousin Sophie.”

  “Yes, that was the time we went to Commem,” agreed Sophie. “It was in 1913 when Dane was at Oxford and he invited us down. My mother came to chaperone us—there she is in the black toque. It had red roses on it, I remember—there’s Elsie in the white dress, and those two young men were Dane’s friends—one of them was killed in the war. That was the first time I met Philip—Dane’s elder brother—but I didn’t get engaged to him until long after that. He seemed so much older, somehow. It wasn’t until Elsie was married and the war started …”

  Her voice died away and she was silent for a few moments thinking of the past. It was queer to look over these old photographs and to see these young figures and unlined characterless faces. She felt vaguely that here one ought to find the key to the riddle of life. Here they all were—herself, Elsie, Philip, Dane and Tom and many others all young and eager like themselves, and here their lives had been in the melting pot. They had not realised this at the time, for they were all too young and gay and inexperienced … and it seemed a little unfair that these gay young creatures should have had the frightful responsibility of choosing their own moulds, of moulding their own lives and characters. It was all such a toss up, thought Sophie, as she looked back, Elsie might easily have married Tom … and she herself might have chosen a different partner in the matrimonial stakes. As she had said to Franz it was not until Elsie was married and the war started that she had agreed at last to marry Philip Braithwaite—he was safe and sure and so terribly in love with her and she had wanted a refuge from the storm.

  “Is this your husband?” Franz was inquiring.

  “Yes,” said Sophie, blinking a little and bending over the book. “Yes, that’s Philip. He’s very good-looking isn’t he? And here’s another photograph of us all together. It was taken at seven-o’clock in the morning after we had danced all night … and there’s another of Elsie and me together … isn’t she pretty?”

  “You all look very happy,” Franz said.

  “We were happy,” replied Sophie. “That was really the last happy time we had. It was just after that that your father came over from Germany and he and Elsie fell in love at first sight, and nothing was ever the same again.”

  “You did not approve of the marriage?” asked Franz, turning his head and looking at her earnestly.

  “Well dear,” said Sophie, grasping the bull by the horns, “well, dear, to be quite frank, I was rather miserable about it. Of course it may have been that I was a little jealous—Elsie and I had always been such friends—or it may have been because I knew she would have to go so far away—although I didn’t realise that I should never see her again—but whatever it was I didn’t like it a bit.”

  “It was your instinct,” said Franz firmly.

  “My instinct?”

  “Yes, it was a very bad marriage indeed. It was bad for both of them—schrecklich—”

  “Franz dear!” interrupted Sophie a trifle breathlessly. “I don’t know how we managed to get on to the subject, but really … really I don’t think we should discuss it. Your parents … and they were very much in love … and so … and so …”

  “We will not discuss it,” he agreed. “There is no need to discuss it if it distresses you, Cousin Sophie. Let us look at some more pictures, shall we? Wynne told me that you have a picture of my father as a young man. I should like to see it, and perhaps you would be very kind and give it to me.”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Sophie at once. “Of course you shall have it. Give me that brown book with the brass clasps … I’m almost certain it’s in that
one. Perhaps you’d like to have one of your mother as well.”

  Chapter Four

  Dane Worthington arrived at Fernacres two days later at six o’clock in the morning. He arrived in his touring car with his man sitting beside him and his luggage piled in the tonneau. They had crossed the Channel from Calais the day before, had spent some hours in London and had left London in the early hours of the morning. They had encountered a few lorries, and a string of carts with vegetable produce going in to the market, but apart from these there was little traffic and Dane had done the journey at a good speed. He drove up to the side door, opened it with his private key and went in. Hartley carried in the luggage, opened all the windows and prepared tea. Hartley had been with Major Worthington for so long that he knew exactly what to do—there was little need for words between them.

  “Splendid run, sir,” he said, as he came into the sitting-room with the tray of tea and thin breakfast biscuits and a jar of marmalade.

  “Yes,” agreed Dane, looking up from his paper, “yes, it was. I can’t think why more people don’t take advantage of a clear road.”

  “They don’t like getting up out of their beds,” replied Hartley as he put the tray on the table and arranged it neatly. “There’s plenty of people would take a fit if you asked them to get up at four.”

  “Do you mind?” inquired Dane curiously.

  Hartley smiled. “No sir, it doesn’t worry me.”

  “I don’t know what I should do without you, Hartley.”

  “No sir,” agreed Hartley, “you couldn’t get on without me, and to tell the truth I’d be pretty well lost without you, sir, if you know what I mean. We’ve been through a good many funny experiences, haven’t we?”

  “Starting with the war,” agreed Dane, who was in an unusually reminiscent mood, “starting with that hellish day at Festubert where we met face to face in a German trench and nearly scared each other to death.”

  “I’ve been nearly scared to death more than once since that day,” Hartley said thoughtfully.

  Dane smiled again. “You might get a job as valet to a nice fat old gentleman and settle down to a respectable old age,” he suggested.

  “I’d be bored to death, then,” replied Hartley seriously, “and that would be worse.… My old grandfather used to say, ‘Better wear out than rust out.’ … Will you be wanting anything else, sir?”

  “No,” said Dane, “you had better have a few hours in bed.”

  Hartley had no intention of going to bed. They had both been up all night but he had slept in the car and he was used to unconventional hours. Dane often chose to travel by night for he always travelled by car and preferred a clear road. Hartley was a good driver and sometimes took a spell at the wheel—he liked to drive with the powerful beams of the big head-lamps cutting through the dark. The Continental roads were the ones for speed—the long straight roads of France, and those new German Autobahnen— but all the same Hartley was glad to be home again.

  When Hartley had gone Dane poured out his tea. He stood by the table and drank it slowly. He put a large spoonful of marmalade onto a biscuit and ate it with obvious enjoyment. Continental fare was extremely good, thought Dane, but there was something very refreshing about tea and marmalade … it was extraordinarily clean food. He also was glad to be home. He liked the room with its bookcases and deep leather chairs. He liked the view from the windows … the green lawn, the thick wall of rhododendrons, and above and beyond the little peep of blue sea.

  Dane was still looking out of the window when a figure ran round the house on to the lawn. It was the figure of a young man—a blond giant in running shorts and a thin white vest—and, as Dane watched, he began to exercise himself in a conscientious manner. He ran round the lawn with his elbows to his sides and his knees well up; he stopped and bent, touching his toes and then straightening his back and throwing up his head; he swung his arms upwards and outwards in wide circles. Dane did not seem unduly surprised at the exhibition, but he did seem interested. He stood to one side of the window and watched, and presently he was aware that Hartley was standing behind him.

  “Pretty useful sort of fellow in a scrap,” he remarked quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” Hartley agreed. “Fine dorsal muscles, he has. Knows his stuff, too. It’s nice to watch, isn’t it?”

  “It would be nice to watch if you didn’t know what was at the back of it,” replied Dane slowly, “if you didn’t know that the boy is preparing his body for war. To me there’s something pretty grim in that thought.…”

  They were silent for a few moments and then Hartley said, “It’s very queer, somehow—I can’t get over it—I’ve seen lots of queer things, but a Nazi in Fernacres garden!”

  “Stranger than a sea-serpent,” suggested Dane with an involuntary smile.

  The display on the lawn finished with an exhibition of jumping. The young athlete took a run and cleared the white painted garden bench end on … then, picking up his towel, he ran round the corner of the house and disappeared.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Dane, turning from the window with a sigh. “Remember what I told you, Hartley,” he added, “not a word to the servants.”

  “Not a word, sir,” Hartley agreed.

  The others were at breakfast when Dane went down, and, as usual, his welcome left nothing to be desired.

  “What a lovely surprise!” Sophie exclaimed, smiling at him from behind the coffee-pot. “I was simply amazed when Rose brought my tea and told me you had arrived … this is Franz von Heiden … you remember his mother, don’t you?”

  Franz had risen and was bowing politely with his table-napkin in his hand.

  “Why, of course,” Dane said, “I remember your father, too. I hope he is well.”

  “Thank you, he is in excellent health,” replied Franz solemnly.

  (Franz had a feeling that he had seen Major Worthington before, but he found it quite impossible to remember the circumstances. When and where had he seen that tall slender figure, that thin humorous face, that thick dark silky hair? He noted the grey eyes, the dark arch of the eyebrows and the firm lips which, at the moment, were curved into a half-mocking smile. It was not a face or figure that one would easily forget and somehow or other Franz associated it with flowers … with large pink roses.…)

  Dane was now at the sideboard helping himself to bacon and eggs. “Marvellous stuff, bacon and eggs,” he was saying as he picked out the crisp rashers and laid them neatly upon his plate.

  “I hope everything was all right in your rooms,” said Sophie anxiously. “If you had wired I could have had them all ready. We didn’t expect you until next week … the fire wasn’t lighted or anything.”

  “A match put that right,” replied Dane.

  “Did you get my letter?”

  “Which letter? I got one just before I left.”

  “Was your cure over sooner than you expected?”

  “I was homesick,” he replied, smiling at her. “I was homesick for Fernacres and bacon and eggs.”

  “You have been at Carlsbad, sir?” inquired Franz.

  “You’re looking thin,” said Sophie anxiously. “Have you been having enough to eat? Was the cure very strenuous?”

  “How long did it take you to come down from town?” asked Wynne.

  Dane laughed. “What a lot of questions!” he exclaimed. “I’m always thin—Carlsbad or no Carlsbad—and you must ask Hartley how long it took us to come down. He always times us carefully. As a matter of fact we came pretty fast—there was practically nothing on the roads.”

  “There wouldn’t be at that hour,” declared Sophie, “and talking of roads, Franz wants to buy a motor bicycle but I told him he must wait until you came home. I knew you’d help him to choose it. The gardener’s wife wants a gas cooker—”

  “Soot had kittens yesterday,” Wynne broke in, “and I want to keep two—they’re such darlings—”

  “The Red House has been sold,” declared Sophie. “They’re rather
queer people, I’m afraid—different coloured curtains in all the windows—it’s such a pity because the Red House is so nice and I do so like having nice neighbours. Of course they’re at the back,” she added somewhat cryptically.

  Fortunately Dane knew exactly what she meant. The Red House was on the north side of Fernacres so that although the gardens of the two houses were adjoining, they faced on to different roads. “So the curtains don’t really matter,” Dane said.

  “No,” agreed Sophie, “but I mean—” She hesitated …

  “You mean that people who neglect the outward appearance of their house are usually indifferent neighbours.”

  “Of course that’s what I mean,” nodded Sophie with a pleased smile. “How clever you are, Dane.”

  “And there’s more in it than curtains,” put in Wynne. “Horrid little Pekingese all over the garden and the tennis court going wild—I wish you could do something about it, Dane.”

  “I wish I could,” he agreed, “but although I am extremely clever and noted far and wide for my tact and diplomacy there are certain limits to what even I can accomplish—the case of the people at the Red House seems to be definitely outside these limits I’m afraid.…”

  After breakfast Dane returned to his own rooms to do some writing and, shortly after, there was a knock on the door and Wynne peeped in.

  “Are you terribly busy?” she inquired.

  “Terribly,” said Dane, laying down his pen and clasping his long thin hands on the table in front of him. “Much too busy to talk to you.”

  Wynne opened the door wider and came in. She perched herself on the edge of the table and looked down at him.

  “The house feels quite different when you’re at home,” she declared, “even our bit of the house feels different.”

  “More pleasant, I hope?” inquired Dane gravely.

  Wynne did not answer this ridiculous question. She said, “I knew when I woke this morning that you were home, I knew it in my bones.”