Down Under (12 page)

“Yes,” said Mr Smith—“suggestive, but—er—inconclusive.”

“Well, that's all about Florrie,” said Oliver. “I was going to see her again this afternoon, but I thought I'd like to talk to you first.”

“Just one moment, Captain Loddon. I am—er—wondering about this sister-in-law of Matthew Garstnet's. You see, he has no such—er—relation.”

“You're sure about that?”

Mr Smith nodded.

“The present Mrs Garstnet may have a sister, or sisters—I do not know. But she would not allude to a relative of her own as her husband's sister-in-law.”

Oliver agreed.

“The first Mrs Garstnet had no near relations. Matthew Garstnet had no brothers. He had one sister who married Amos Rennard. Strictly speaking, he could not be described as having a sister-in-law, but people are not always exact. His sister Mrs Rennard certainly had a sister-in-law, the widow of her husband's brother Joseph. I—er—mentioned her to you before. It was her son Ernest who was reported missing on a pleasure trip between Boulogne and Folkestone. I told you that I had not been able to trace her whereabouts. I find myself wondering whether she is—er—residing at Oakham.”

“The name,” said Oliver, “is Edwards—Mrs Edwards. She keeps herself to herself.”

“Yes,” said Mr Smith, “I think that very likely. I should certainly go back and see Florrie again—Florrie and—er—Mrs Edwards. If she is—or was—Mrs Joseph Rennard, she has a noticeable red scar upon her left cheek. I should certainly go back if I were you.”

Oliver assented. He had no great hope of Florrie, and he was not at all interested in Mrs Joseph Rennard. He said a trifle abruptly,

“Well, sir, there are two other things, and I'll tell you the last one first, because it's about the Garstnets too. It's just something I heard Mrs Garstnet say when I came in last night. I was passing their parlour—as a matter of fact I was just going to ask her to have me called early—when I heard her crying. And then she said, ‘It's her face—the way she looked at me. Oh, I can't get it out of my mind!' And then Matthew Garstnet swore at her and banged the door—it had been a little bit open. It—it's nothing of course—or—it might be something. She may have been talking about Florrie, or … It's just another of the things which you can easily explain away, but it seems to me that there are rather a lot of them. Then there's something else. After you told me about the Rennards I thought—mind you, I don't feel that I can accept your theory about Amos Rennard—I don't feel as if the thing was possible—all those disappearances—but I'm ready to follow up anything, any shadow, because if I don't do something I shall go mad. So I thought I'd follow up what you said about the red hair, and I asked Elfreda about it.”

“Yes?” said Mr Smith. “Yes?”

Oliver told him about the fancy dress ball and the red-haired Cavalier of the Rose whose dress had matched Rose Anne's.

“And who,” said Mr Smith, “may I ask—who would be in a position to know what Miss Carew's dress was going to be? That is an important point. Also you have not told me what it was, Captain Loddon.”

“She went as a rose,” said Oliver shortly—“as a white rose. Mrs Garstnet made the dress.” His heart broke in him at the thought of Rose Anne in her white rose dress.

There was a little silence. Then Mr Benbow Smith said quietly,

“I think that is very important indeed. Miss Carew goes to the ball as a rose, and there appears, to match her, Octavian, the Rosenkavalier. It could hardly be—a coincidence.”

Oliver said in a low, hard voice,

“He came there to dance with her. He told her so.”

“Miss Moore is your informant?”

“Yes, Elfreda Moore. Rose Anne was staying with them.”

“Then you will please tell me everything that Miss Moore told you. Do not leave anything out.”

Oliver repeated Elfreda's story as he had heard it from her the night before.

When he had finished, Mr Smith got up out of his chair and drifted over to the window, where he stood looking out upon the street. It was a grey November afternoon of drizzle and mist. The streets were wet, umbrellas were up, and the rainy sky seemed to touch the roof-line of the tall houses over the way. Not much to look at, yet Mr Smith looked long and earnestly before he came back to the hearth, walking slowly. That he should have passed Ananias twice without so much as a glance was in itself a matter of some significance. But Oliver Loddon was not to know this. He got up because Mr Benbow Smith did not return to his chair but came to rest upon the hearth, looking down into the fire in very much the same manner as he had looked out into the mist. When he spoke, it was to repeat his former words.

“I think that this is very important. You say that you do not accept my—er—theory, but you have told me a story which fits that theory in a very remarkable manner. Can you believe for a moment that it was chance which brought this Octavian to the ball in a dress which was the complement of Miss Carew's? Why, he even told her that it was no accident when he said that he had come there to dance with her.”

Oliver bit his lip.

“Does a man meet a girl at a dance in July make no further attempt to see her, and then carry her off by force in November?”

Mr Smith looked up for a moment and then down again. “A normal man, acting within the limits of—er—civilization and under the restraints of civilized law—er—no. An abnormal man, freed from these restraints and knowing no law but his own desires—er—yes, Captain Loddon.”

“And you believe that we are up against such a man?”

Mr Smith looked at him again.

“We are dealing with—er—facts, not beliefs. It is a fact that Miss Carew has disappeared. You have said that you are—er—absolutely certain that her disappearance was not a voluntary one.”

“I am absolutely certain.”

“You have known her—a long time?”

“I met her three years ago. I fell in love with her then. I didn't ask her to marry me, because I was on the point of going abroad, and she was—very young. I came back just over a year ago. We became engaged in May.”

“So that, taking into account the—er—exigencies of your profession, you have, I suppose, only seen her at intervals and not for very long at a time. Are you quite sure that she did not meet this man again?”

Oliver said, “No.” And then, “Don't misunderstand me, sir. I am quite sure of her—her loyalty. I am quite sure that she did not go of her own free will.”

Mr Smith said, “I see—” He looked down into the fire. After a while he went on speaking. “You asked me a question a little while ago. I did not answer it, but if you wish, I will answer it now.”

Oliver said, “Yes?”

“You asked me if I believed in the man I had—er—described to you. I do. I believe him to be one of the Rennards, probably one of Amos Rennard's sons. There were two of them, you know, and I have never believed that they were really drowned. The Old Fox is said to have been a very affectionate father, and an affectionate father would naturally wish to have his sons with him. At the time of the—er—accident they were sixteen and seventeen years of age. They would be twenty-six and twenty-seven today. Both had red hair. Their names were Mark and Philip. Philip is said to have been a remarkably handsome and talented youth. His hair was of an unusual copper shade. I incline to think that he may be the—er—Rosenkavalier. And now I would like to leave the—er—region of fact and—er—theorise for a while. The Octavian of that fancy dress ball was someone who knew Miss Carew was going to be there and what her dress was going to be. Do you know whether she was making a long stay in the Isle of Wight, or did she go down just for the dance?”

“Just for the dance. I was asked too, but I couldn't get leave.”

“And she brought her dress with her—the dress that Mrs Garstnet had made. How could a chance—er—gatecrasher have known anything at all about Miss Carew and her dress? But Mrs Garstnet's nephew might have known—Philip Rennard might have known. You say that you fell in love with Miss Carew at first sight. Another man may have done the same thing.”

“Sir!”

“One moment, Captain Loddon. If this man was one who for ten years had known no law, no curb, no restraint, is it difficult to suppose that he might endeavor to take what he coveted?”

“You are asking me to believe that this man has kidnapped Rose Anne?”

“You have just reiterated your conviction that her disappearance was not voluntary.”

At the other end of the room Ananias could be heard muttering, “Pretty young gel—pretty young gel—pretty young gel—” Then, on a loud squawking note,

“So fare ye well, my pretty young gel,

For we're bound for the Rio Grande.”

“No, Ananias!”

Ananias dropped to a murmur of “Rio—Rio—Rio—”

“Think, Captain Loddon—” Mr Smith's voice took on a rare quality of earnestness—“think. If she did not go voluntarily, who was responsible? Someone. Think whether the drama of a disappearance on her wedding eve would not appeal to the flamboyant young man who had walked uninvited into that ball-room in the Isle of Wight and presented himself to Miss Carew as the Cavalier of the Rose. Then think again—Philip Rennard is the Garstnets' nephew, the son of Matthew Garstnet's sister. Miss Carew runs over to the Garstnets' house to see their child and—disappears. The Garstnets say that she left the inn shortly before seven o'clock. I say there is no proof that she ever left it at all.”

“They would never have dared to keep her there,” said Oliver. “The house was full. We were all there—Russell and I—all the relatives.”

“Yes—yes—that would be—er—very good camouflage, you know. And they would not have kept her there. They would have—er—conveyed her as soon as possible to a place of safety.”

Oliver said, “Where?”

“That,” said Mr Smith, “is what we have to find out.”

CHAPTER XIV

The letter came next day.

Oliver went back to Hillick St Agnes, and arrived late at the Angel. He left his car in its Malling garage and walked the three hilly miles for the sake of the exercise. He had been in trains and houses all day long, and the keen air was grateful to him. He slept that night in the fumed-oak bed which had replaced the archaic four-poster he remembered on a previous visit. He slept, but the sleep was full of dreams in which he searched for Rose Anne. She was there but he could not see her, within reach but he could not touch her, round the next bend of the road, lost in a shadow, whirled from him by a sudden and terrifying wind, a wind that shook the world and left him dizzy and blind.

Blind—in his dream he was blind—no glimmer of light, no faintest ray, only a thick, pressing darkness, heavy upon his eyes, upon his thoughts, upon his heart. There was no Rose Anne. She had never been, and the dream he had had of her was done, most utterly done. She was gone, and he would never find her again, because there was no Rose Anne. The sweat of anguish broke on him, and suddenly he heard her voice. It came sweetly into his dream and broke it. She said his name, just the one word, just “Oliver,” and the darkness broke. He came up into the light again, and saw a grey dawn strike between the curtains.

The dawn is not so very early in November, and he had no mind for sleep again. He wanted in any case to make an early start. He was going to St Anne's again, he was going to see Florrie. What he had to do was to get enough evidence to put before the police, enough evidence to support Mr Smith's theories or to explode them. He had to get facts, and he had to get them quickly.

He dressed, breakfasted, and walked over to the Vicarage. He could not leave Hillick St Agnes without seeing the Carews and Elfreda. And just as he came up to the gate, he met the postman coming away. He was an old man and very friendly. He beamed at Oliver and said,

“Morning, Captain, morning. There's a letter for 'ee, and I hope it's got good news in it, that I do.”

Oliver went in, and found James Carew in the hall with a letter in his hand. He was staring at it, and when Oliver spoke to him he stared at him too. Then he took him by the arm and into the study, and when the door was shut he put the letter into his hand. It was addressed in Rose Anne's writing to

Captain Oliver Loddon

at The Vicarage

Hillick St Agnes

and it had the Paris postmark.

Oliver walked to the window, opened the letter, and read at the top of the sheet his own name.

His own name. Just Oliver. That was how it had been in his dream—just his own name. But this was different. There was no sweetness here. The letter said:

“Oliver,

You must please try and forgive me. When it came to the point I could not marry you. It would not have been fair to either of us, because, you see, I love someone else—”

There was a queer little blot here, as if the pen had stopped and so stayed until the ink ran down and made a round black bead. The letter went on, as Rose Anne must have gone on after making that blot:

“I love someone else, and I am going to marry him as soon as it can be arranged. Give my love to them all and say I shall write again when I am married. Tell them not to worry. I can't give any address, because I don't know how long we are going to be anywhere.

“Rose Anne.”

Oliver read the letter twice. Then he turned round and put it into James Carew's hand.

Later he was walking down the hill towards Malling. He wanted to get away from tears, and grieved, shocked faces, and Miss Hortensia's moralities. He had planned to go to Malling, but when he was half way there it occurred to him that there was no longer any reason for his plan. Since Rose Anne was in Paris with the man she loved, he had all the facts he needed, and the theories of Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith were blown sky-high and scattered to the breeze. There was nothing for him to do in Malling or anywhere. His dream came back upon him, cold and staring.
There was no Rose Anne
.