Danger Point (21 page)

LISLE! What happened? Are you all right?”

She said, “I fell—” and heard his voice with a savage note in it.

“He pushed you!”

Her hands were on the rocky wall, holding it as best she might. She hid her face against them and felt how cold they were.

There was a moment, and then he called her sharply.

“See if you can reach me! Stretch up as high as you can!”

The beam of the torch was gone. She could just make out a dark something that was his head. He was lying down on the flat-topped boulder from which Dale had pushed her, reaching down to her at the full stretch of his arms as she reached up. She stood on tiptoe and strained towards him, but their hands did not touch. She heard him move, draw back. The light came again.

“You can’t get higher up?”

“No — I’m on the highest bit. The floor slopes down. There’s a deep hole. I’ve been afraid to move.”

The beam of the torch went to and fro. It picked up a wide fissure splitting off the flat boulder from a rock wall which joined the main reef. He switched off the light and put the torch in his trouser pocket. Its light and the strength of the battery behind it were pretty well all that stood between them and death. They were not to be wasted. He said,

“I can’t reach you. There’s a split in the rock — that’s why the water is so far down. The pool drains away as the tide goes out. There’s nothing to worry about — we’ll just have to wait till it comes in, that’s all”

“Until the tide comes in!” Her voice was a faint breath of horror. It seemed too dreadful to be borne. Wait till the tide came in and drowned them!

“What’s the matter? Don’t you see that the water will float you up? Even if I could just reach your hands, I don’t think I could get you out of a sheer place like this. There’s nothing for me to hold on to, and this rock’s as slippery as they’re made. But we’ve only got to wait and the tide will do the trick. Look out — I’m letting my belt down to you. You keep hold of the buckle end. That’ll give you something to pull on, and as soon as the water’s high enough I’ll get you out.”

“Will it be long?”

“About twenty minutes, I think — perhaps half an hour. It comes up pretty quick once it’s got over the ridge. We’re really not much above that level here — that’s why I can’t risk going back for help. Evans is the only man about the place who can swim, and he’s not much use, and by the time I’d got him and a rope — well, it’s not good enough. I’ll get you out all right. Have you got hold of the belt?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not hurt?”

“No.”

“Lisle — why did you go with him? Why were you so mad?”

She said, “I didn’t know—”

“Why didn’t you go away? I tried to make you go away.”

“Was that why? I thought you hated me. Was it because you knew — about Dale?”

“I didn’t know — I was horribly afraid.”

Strange to be talking like this in the dark, the sky just visible, their faces hidden one from the other. Strange, and easy.

She thought of that, and she thought that it had always been easy to talk to Rafe. She said.

“He killed Lydia. Did you know that?”

He used the same words again.

“I didn’t know — I was afraid.”

“And Cissie — poor Cissie.”

“Lisle, I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t know. I could only suspect. There was always some way that it might have happened. Lydia might have slipped — she hadn’t any head for heights. Pell might have damaged your car, and Pell might have murdered Cissie — things happen like that. But when I found her lying there—”

“You found her?”

“I thought it was you.”

“But Rafe — you found her?”

“Yes, I found her —and I thought it was you. I took her by the shoulders to turn her over. That’s how my prints came on that damned coat. Lisle, I thought it was you—” His voice shuddered and broke.

She said, “Did you see her fall?”

“No, I just came on her. I didn’t hear anything either — the gulls were crying — I was a long way off. I had just been trying to get you to go away, and you asked me whether I hated you — do you remember? I was a long way off from where I was walking. I hadn’t thought where I was, or how far I’d gone. I was about a million miles away, and then I came back with a thud that pretty well broke me. And I was right under the Tane Head cliff, with what I thought was your dead body at my feet.”

After a long time she said.

“You didn’t tell anyone—”

“No, Lisle — it broke me. I came back to the wall and stayed there half the night. It wasn’t only the shock of thinking it was you — it was — Dale. If I could think it was you, why so could he. Everything I had been fighting came back and got me down. I didn’t know what to do. I made up my mind that unless I was called at the inquest I would hold my tongue. I didn’t want to bring you in for one thing. And my finding her proved nothing. It didn’t help Pell.”

She said in a curious still voice,

“Dale said you killed Lydia — and Cissie. He said you were trying to kill me — because of Tanfield. He said—”

“And you believed him!”

“I don’t know —I don’t think I believed anything — any more.”

“When you came down to dinner you looked at me as if I wasn’t there.”

Her voice lifted on a sighing breath.

“I didn’t feel — as if — any of us were there — really. It was like a horrible dream.”

“He’d been telling you then?”

“Yes. He told me. It made me feel—” She stopped as if she was searching for a word, and then said, “stunned.”

There was a moment’s silence before she spoke again.

“Rafe — what happened to your cigarette-case — the one I gave you for your birthday?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Yes, I know. I wanted to know if you did.”

He said, “Dale took it — on that Wednesday night. His case was empty. He saw mine lying there on one of the chairs, and he picked it up and put it in his pocket when he and Alicia went off.”

“Did he know that you had seen him take it?”

“Oh, yes, he knew. What did he tell you about it?”

“He said Alicia found it up on the cliff where Cissie went over. He said that she was looking for her emerald and diamond clip. And she found your case.”

Rafe made a movement.

“And that is very likely! I wondered what she was doing up there this morning.” He gave a curious laugh. “It really was only this morning, but it feels like years ago. I don’t suppose she dropped her clip at all, but Dale knew he had dropped my case up there, and he sent her to look for it.”

The strangest part of all this strange business was the quiet way in which they talked it over. There had been passion and racking fear, the action and reaction of hatred, suspicion, and doubt. There had been first the slow decay, and then the violent death of hope, and faith, and love. There had been floodtides of emotion. Now all was spent, was gone, was over.

They spoke to one another without effort or reserve. Neither could see the other’s face, but to each the other’s thought was most simple, plain, and clear.

After a long pause Lisle said,

“Alicia — did she know?”

There was no answer. There never was to be any answer to that. Just how much Alicia knew or guessed about Lydia — about Cissie, only Alicia herself could have told, and Alicia would never tell.

The silence spoke. And then Lisle spoke, breaking it.

“The water is rising—”

FROM the withdrawing of the tide until sundown the pool had reflected and absorbed the light and heat of the day. The water was still warm. It had not seemed so to Lisle, but she became aware of it now when the new cold water brought by the rising tide came eddying in against her breast, against her shoulders, rocking her from her unsteady footing. She held to the belt with one hand and steadied herself against the rocky wall with the other.

The new cold ripple ebbed, came again, rocking, chilling, lifting her — ebb and flow, and ebb and flow again — a tide within a tide, but each flow stronger and colder than the last.

The time came when Rafe’s hand, reaching downwards, closed on her wrist. For Lisle the worst was over then. For Rafe all the hardest part was yet to come. The rock on which he lay was slimy with weed. There was nothing to hold to. He had perforce to wait until the water was within three feet of the brink before he could get Lisle over it. She was numb and exhausted. He would have to get her out between the rocks to the sandy ridge, then round the point and in, between the rocks on the other side — just the one possible channel in either case, where the shingle spit ran in on this side and the tongue of sand upon the other. Both were deep under the water now, since the tide, which had been held up by the ridge, was by this time well over it, flooding all the lower levels.

If he had not known every rock on the beach, every twist of the channel, it would have been a very forlorn hope indeed. Even in daylight no one in his senses would have attempted to find his way amongst these formidable and jagged rocks with no real depth of water over them. The worst of them were upon this side of the Shepstone Wall. If he could reach the ridge with Lisle he could bring her in. But he had to reach the ridge. At all times a poor swimmer, she was in no case to help herself or him.

He made her float, and sliding down into the water, began to pilot her towards the ridge, swimming slowly and with extreme caution, one arm about her, his eyes straining to find each landmark.

The summer sky is never quite dark. On a clear July night there is always a faint, mysterious light under which shapes and masses appear without detail but with varying degrees of solidity. To Rafe these vague shapes possessed their unseen contours. There was not one of them which he could not call from its obscurity and see it in his mind as he had seen it unnumbered times under the light of day.

He moved slowly but with the certainty which comes of custom and practice. Lisle lay passive in the water. She might have been unconscious. He wondered if she were. He could see her face as a pale oval.

Lisle was not unconscious, but her consciousness was of a curious kind. It had limits. Within these limits she could think, but beyond them all was as vague, as dimmed as the sea in which she floated. She was not afraid any more. She was quite safe. Rafe said so. She was safe, but she was cold and very tired. She wanted above all things in the world to lie down and sleep. She felt the movement of the water. She felt Rafe’s arm. She did not know how time passed. She knew that they moved, but she did not know when they turned the point and began to head towards their own beach. She hardly knew when they reached it.

Rafe’s voice calling her — Rafe’s hands pulling her up, setting her on her feet — his arm hard about her—

“Can you walk? Better for you if you can. Can you get to the steps? I can’t leave you here with the tide coming in. Put your arm round my neck and try.”

They got to the steps. They got up them. He was taking most of her weight. At each stage of that journey it seemed as if there was no strength left for the next, yet each stage was accomplished. From the water’s edge to the sea wall. From the wall up the long ride, so green by day, so dark and shadowy now. On, and on, and on among the statues and cypresses of the Italian garden. Across the terrace, and at long last to the house.

There was still a light in the hall. To come into it was like coming back from the other side of another world than this. Lisle roused enough to know how cold she was. And then William was there, and Rafe was telling him that she had had an accident and he must get Lizzie and one of the other maids at once.

The things that happened after that slid vaguely across the dulled surface of her consciousness — Lizzie and Mary being kind — a hot bath — something hot to drink — her own bed. These things slid past like a succession of dreams. They were not so much happiness as impressions. Then, striking through them, something that penetrated the numbness — Rafe’s hand on hers — Rafe’s voice—

“You’re quite safe, Lisle. Lizzie will stay with you. Can you hear me? You’re quite safe.”

She said, “Yes.”

The sense of safety came in like a flood. She sank through it into the deepest waters of sleep.

RAFE JERNINGHAM came into the study and shut the door. It was a few minutes short of midnight. He sat down at Dale’s table, took the receiver from the telephone, and called the Tanfield aerodrome. The voice which answered was a familiar one.

“Hullo!”

“Hullo, Mac! Rafe Jerningham speaking. Has my cousin taken his plane up?”

Mac’s voice came back to him with its Scottish burr.

“Well, I’m not sure. There was a bit of a hold-up. Johnson was working on the plane, and I’m not just sure if he got off or not. Are you wanting him?”

“Yes. Look here, Mac, if he hasn’t gone, get hold of him. There’s been an accident up here — will you tell him that. Ask him to come and speak to me.”

“I hope it’s nothing bad—”

Rafe said, “Bad enough.”

He heard Mac’s footsteps go away, sounding unnaturally loud in the empty, echoing place. They went over the edge of sound and were gone. He waited for those other footsteps — Dale’s footsteps — hurrying to hear that Lisle was dead. The room was very still.

The footsteps came at last — the quick, impatient steps of a man who is in no mind to be kept waiting. Then the sound of the receiver being snatched up, and Dale’s voice.

“That you, Rafe? What is it?”

“There’s been an accident.”

“Who?”

“Lisle. I found her.”

“Where?”

“In one of those pools beyond the Shepstone Rocks.”

“Dead?”

“No — alive.”

There was a smashing silence. Not the faintest sound from all those things which that one word must have sent down in ruin. Then, after what seemed a long time, Dale’s voice:

“Is she — hurt?”

“No.”

“Conscious?”

“Perfectly.”

“Has she been talking?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. Then Dale Jerningham said,

“I see.” And then, “What happens next?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Meaning there’s no compromise?”

“How can there be?”

There was another pause. Dale laughed.

“Bit of a meddler — aren’t you! Why couldn’t you leave well alone? Just out of curiosity I’d like to know how you found her.”

“Footprints on the sand — two lots going, and only one coming back.”

“I see — the odd chance. You can’t fight your luck. It’s been against me all along. Well? Do you import March into this?”

“Bound to. There’s Pell—”

“All right, carry on. There’s a letter on my dressing-table in a blank envelope — you might retrieve it. Well, that’s all — I’m just going up. You’ll hear me come over in a minute. So long!” The receiver clicked. The line was dead.

Rafe hung up at his end and got to his feet. He stood there for a moment under the light, looking up at the picture over the hearth. Giles Jerningham, sometime Lord Chief Justice of England, looked sternly back at him.

Presently he turned and went out of the room, switching off the light as he went.

Upstairs in the dressing-room, with all the signs of Dale’s occupancy about it, he found the letter. It was in a plain envelope propped up against the looking-glass — no address, and the flap not gummed down. Inside, a single sheet with a couple of lines in Lisle’s writing. No beginning to them, and no end. Just two lines in a tired, sloping hand:

“I don’t feel as if I can stand this strain any more. Please forgive me—”

Rafe saw the words in a blinding flash of horror. Lisle had written them. When? How? There rose before him a brief interchange of words as they came out of the dining-room after lunch. Dale and Alicia had gone on, and he had said to Lisle in the old light way which was dead, “Why so tired, honey-sweet? You look as if you had been through a mangle.” And Lisle, half laughing, “Well, I have. We’ve been trying to concoct a last appeal to my obstinate old Robson. I should think I’ve spoiled twenty pages — and it’s no good really.” And then, quite suddenly, her hand on his arm. “Rafe, I forgot — Dale didn’t want anyone to know. It — it means such a tremendous lot to him.” He could hear himself saying, “All right — I won’t give you away.”

He looked back at the two scrawled lines, and had no doubt that this was one of Lisle’s spoiled sheets. Words suggested, perhaps even dictated, by Dale — words which would have been a convincing proof of suicide when Lisle’s drowned body came ashore, washed up by tomorrow’s tide.

He went over to the fireplace, put a match to the paper, and watched it burn away to a fine ash. Then he opened the long french window and went out on to the balcony. It was the same upon which Lisle’s three windows opened. There was a light in her room, Lizzie would not leave her. The curtains were drawn back. The light made a faint glow upon the stone parapet — a faint yellow glow, perhaps from a shaded candle.

He stood and looked out over the massed woods to the sea. There, between the trees, they had made their faltering way home less than an hour ago.

Faint and far away, coming up out of nothingness, he heard the beginning of the sound he was waiting for. His whole mind and body were so keyed up that the sound seemed to be felt rather than heard.

There was a moment that was not time. Everything that he had ever felt or known hung in it, suspended between what had been and what was yet to come. It was sharp, and clear, and irrevocable.

The moment was gone again, blotted out by actuality. The insistent drone of an approaching plane clamoured against his ear, and all at once the sound swept up into a roaring crescendo — the music of flight, a music which he loved and had always thrilled to. It beat now against every nerve. With its climax he saw the plane, not overhead but away to the left, black against the downs — too black to be seen if she had not cut the dark with so easy and swift a flight. She came round the house in a great sweep, flying wide and low, and turned out to sea. She was climbing now — up, and up, and up, black as a bird against that luminous sky — up, and up. The hum of the engine dwindled. The bird was lost, and then suddenly, dreadfully found again — falling into sight and sound in a downward rushing dive towards the sea. The water took her. Sound and sight were gone.

Dale was gone.

Rafe went on standing there. He leaned on the balustrade and looked out over the sea. But what he now watched was not this place which had been Dale’s possession or the sea which was his grave, but the whole procession of their lives, always linked, always separate…

Pictures. Dale in the nursery, lordly and strong at five years old, all smiles and charm as long as he had his way. Rafe and Alicia worshipping. Dale at school, strong and big for his age, carelessly protective to a younger cousin who had a knack of passing exams but wasn’t nearly so good at games. Dale captain of football and cricket. Dale winning the mile. Dale putting the weight. Dale with everything he wanted in the world until Alicia let him down. Too many things coming too easily, and then a knock-down blow. Dale who had had everything he wanted, to have everything taken away.

Was it some sudden temptation which had sent Lydia over the cliff? Or was there even then under all the surface charm and kindness another Dale, perfectly cool and ruthless, who must have what he wanted, no matter what it cost?

Alicia gone and Tanfield threatened. Was that where things began to go wrong? Or had they been wrong all the time? Does a man suddenly become a murderer, or has the cold, ruthless streak been there always? If you matter too much to yourself, if your possessions matter too much, then other people’s interests, other people’s lives, may come to matter so little that they can be sacrificed without a qualm.

Would things have been different if Dale had married Alicia? Outwardly perhaps. There might have been no murder done, because there would have been no advantage in doing it. Why had Alicia thrown him over? Of the two she was the one who had cared — but she married Rowland Steyne. Why? No one would ever know. Alicia kept her secrets. He wondered whether she had come up against that black streak and been scared by it. No one would ever know.

Dale had married Lydia Burrows, quite willingly and cheerfully after a well played scene of renunciation and despair. He had certainly had no love for Lydia, but how perfectly he had played the lover — a really notable performance. At what point had he decided to bring the run to a close and ring the curtain down?

As far as Rafe had ever been able to observe, Dale had had no regrets. Lydia’s money made everything easy for him again as long as it lasted.

Give him what he wanted, and no one could be kinder or more generous than Dale. The model landowner, hard-working, public-spirited, careful for his tenants; the good master; the man of many friends — were these all parts which the other Dale had played — easily, enjoyable, savouring them to the full? Did he love Alicia? Had he ever loved Lisle? Had he ever loved anyone at all? Or had he only enjoyed playing the lover, the generous master, the good sportsman? The answer came unwillingly. He loved Tanfield. Not Alicia, not Lisle, not Rafe — nothing human. But Tanfield which was in some sort a projection of himself. His possession which in its turn possessed him utterly.

The pictures went on. The night passed.

When the dawn broke, a low white mist covered the sea. Rafe turned and went back into the house,