The Coldstone (28 page)

One does not read other people's letters; but newspaper cuttings are a different matter. Susan's eye was first caught, and then held. Right at the top of the cutting was the sign which was cut upon the Coldstone, the sign of the two interlaced triangles. Over this sign ran the heading, “The Shield of David.”

She read the whole paragraph with a beating heart and burning cheeks; and then, just as she came to the last line, she heard a door bang somewhere below. She pushed the cutting down inside her bag and finished her parcel in a rush. Then she tucked it under her coat, high up where she could hold it against her side by the pressure of her left arm. She was thankful she had come up in a coat and skirt, and not in a thin muslin dress. She felt as hot as fire. She ran to the window and once more looked down into the street. There was a black cloud darkening all the sky above the houses opposite—one of those inky clouds which promise rain and an early falling dark. There were hours of daylight still, but the light seemed to be failing every moment. She looked up and down the street for any sign of Garry. Three children were playing in the gutter on the right. A girl in a bright pink cotton dress and a bright green hat was wheeling a perambulator down the left-hand pavement and looking back over her shoulder at a young man who was staring after her. On the opposite pavement someone was standing looking up at the house she was in. She leaned right out of the window, and only just stopped herself from crying out, because the man was Anthony.

And Anthony, staring at the house into which the man he had been following had just disappeared, lifted his eyes to the top storey and in a sort of agony of amazement recognized Susan.

In the same moment Susan flashed round and faced the opening door. Mr. Garry O'Connell came in with a parcel under his arm. For an instant Susan thought the beating of her heart would have choked her. Then, as she bit the corner of her lip and told herself just what a fool she was, it dawned upon her that Garry was at least as discomposed as she was herself. Never had he seemed less pleased to see her. Then all of a sudden he threw his parcel on to a chair, tossed his hat down upon it, and came towards her with outstretched hands.

“My darling child—if this isn't a pleasant surprise!”

Susan got away from the window. If Garry was going to kiss her, it was just as well that the embrace should not take place where Anthony could hardly help seeing it.

“It's a surprise—but you didn't look as if it was a pleasant one.”

She avoided the kiss by about half an inch, and felt dreadfully self-conscious about the book, which she hoped her coat really did conceal. If Garry put his arm round her, he would feel it. She put the table between them.

“Do you keep your kisses for him?” said Garry shortly.

Susan put her chin in the air.

“I don't keep them for you, Garry,” she said. Her voice shook a little with excitement.

“Do you keep them for him?”

“I haven't the least idea what you're talking about.”

“Liar!” said Garry. He spoke smoothly and pleasantly and his lips smiled, but his eyes had the fierce smouldering look of a dog who is going to bite.

Susan was never afraid of Garry when they were face to face, but afterwards she would be afraid when she remembered that look. She put out her hand as if she were pushing him away.

“My good Garry!” Then, with a laugh, “No—honestly—I have not got time to quarrel—not this afternoon. Any other day I'd simply love to, but now—No, really, Garry—I've got to catch a train. And oh, do be an angel and tell me whether there's anything between the four-forty and the seven-eleven.”

Garry didn't move.

“Why did you come?” he said. One of his hands rested on the table. She saw it twitch.

“Well, I came because Camilla told me you were going to get back some book my father lent to the British Museum. She said she'd given you the receipt. I suppose it'll take simply ages. But I really mustn't stay to talk about it now. I wouldn't have stayed if I'd thought you'd be so long.”

If Garry had
The Shepheard's Kalendar
in that parcel under his hat, he'd want to get rid of her now, just as quickly as ever he could; he'd want to look her up a train and push her off to catch it in the biggest possible hurry. And the timetable was in the next room.

She took a single hurried breath, and saw his face change.

“Oh yes, there'll be delays. I'm on the spot, so you'd better let me push it through. Of course the book mayn't be worth much when you get it. What train did you want to catch?”

“The four-forty, if I can.”

“To Wrane?”

“Yes, Wrane.”

Garry flung away from the table.

“Are you going to stay there for ever?” he said angrily. Then, as he passed her, he just touched her on the shoulder, said “Susan” rather as if the word hurt him, and passed quickly through the open door into the bedroom.

Almost before he was out of sight Susan reached the chair where the parcel lay. She put her own parcel under the hat, and was back in her place by the table, her left arm tingling as she pressed it down upon what she felt certain was
The Shepheard's Kalendar.

Garry O'Connell, coming back with the timetable, looked at her, and felt a sudden rush of admiration. According to his lights, he had loved Susan for years—loved her when she looked pretty, and when she looked plain, and when she looked tired, and when her nose was shiny. She was always Susan. But at this moment she touched beauty. He stood in the doorway wondering. Her eyes were bright and startled, her colour was like a wind-blown flame. She filled the bare, ugly little room with colour and emotion.

Garry, his hands clenched on the time-table, stood there and took the colour and the emotion to himself for just one moment. The next carried him to Susan's side. Before she knew what was going to happen he had his arms about her and she could feel the thudding of his heart. There was a moment in which they saw each other. What Susan saw she hated; and what Garry saw was this hatred looking out of Susan's eyes. In a whirl of rage she twisted herself free and reached the door.

“Are you mad?” And then, in the middle of being angry, something pricked her heart. He had turned so white. She said “Garry!” and he passed his hand across his face, breathing hard. She said “Garry!” again, this time with a note of appeal in her voice.

He swallowed, let the time-table fall on the floor, and then stooped to pick it up again.

“Why—did you—look at me like that?” he said.

Susan dropped her eyes. She could not very well say “Because I've been stealing your—no,
my
book, and I was all worked up.” She said quickly,

“I must fly. Have you looked up the trains?” Then, as he shook his head, “I can't wait. I'll chance the four-forty. Don't come down. Bye-bye!”

Garry went on looking at the place where she had been. He hardly saw her go. He heard the sound of her feet running down the stairs in the same sort of way that a man in a dream hears some sound from the waking world. It meant nothing to him; it was just a sound. Every conscious thought and feeling was given up to a cold, bitter anger which blotted out everything except itself.

Susan ran down the stairs at a break-neck speed. When she was a little girl she used to dream that she was being chased by wolves. The terror of this dream came upon her now. The last dozen steps were just a scramble, and she burst out of the front door into the street with such extreme suddenness that she at once attracted Anthony's attention, riveted though it was to the top window at which he had last seen her. He heard the bang of the door, saw Susan fly down the steps, and met her in the middle of the road, only to be gripped hold of and pinched very hard.

“Run!” said Susan with all that remained of her voice.

“Why?” said Anthony. “Here—steady on! What's happened?”

Susan had no more voice, so she didn't answer in words; but she took his arm and pulled him towards the nearer pavement, and having got him there, she began to run. Anthony ran too.

“What on earth's the matter? Why are we running away?”

Susan didn't say anything. She pulled her hand out of his arm, snatched a parcel from under her coat, and holding it to her chest with both hands, she went on running as fast as she could. When they turned the corner, she stopped dead and clutched at him. She was panting as if they had run two miles instead of two hundred yards.

“What on earth?”

“Taxi!” said Susan. “Taxi!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

In the taxi Susan did not speak. She sat and held the brown paper parcel. Arrived at the garage where Anthony had left his car, she followed him into its dark recesses, still without speaking. Anthony, after asking her whether she was all right and getting a nod, had also relapsed into silence.

The garage was very dark. It smelt strongly of petrol and iodoform. With one part of her mind Susan dealt with the problem of why a garage should smell of iodoform; the rest of her mind was quite full of a queer, thick terror which she did not attempt to explain at all. Presently she would be able to think, and then she would reason herself out of it; just now she could only feel. She felt as if she had had an electric shock, as if she had been in contact with something violent, and violently destructive. At the time she had been shocked into anger, but now everything in her shuddered. She kept seeing Garry's face, very white, and his eyes. She kept seeing them.

She put her parcel down on the folded hood of the car, rested her arms upon it, and bent her head upon them. The garage floor seemed to be tilting with her. She leaned against the car with her eyes shut, and saw showers of little sparks go up in the dark. Then Anthony's arm round her shoulders.

“Susan—what is it?
Susan
—”

Susan lifted her head slowly. She said slowly and stiffly,

“I'm all right.”

“Look here, don't you want some tea or something?”

“I'm all right.”

“I don't believe you've had anything to eat.”

“Yes.”

“I knew you hadn't!” There was triumph in his tone.

Susan let go of the car and leaned against him.

“I did—have something, so—you're wrong.” Then speech came back with a rush. “Oh, do let's get away! I'm perfectly all right, but I want to get away—I don't want to stop in London another minute—I—I—” She began to laugh in a weak, unsteady sort of way. “Oh, I've stolen
The Shepheard's Kalendar.
Do—do
—do
take me away before anyone comes!”

“You've burgled the Museum?”

She shook her head, still laughing.

“No—no I Oh, do take me away!”

Anthony's hand came down hard upon her shoulder.

“You're not to go on like that! You're to pull yourself together! If you have hysterics or do a faint, there's only petrol to pour over you—so drop it! In you get!”

Out in the open air and on the move, Susan really did pull herself together. The black cloud she had seen from the window still hung overhead. The air was heavy, and a little chill. As they began to move faster, she took a long breath and shivered.

“Cold?” said Anthony.

“No. Anthony—”

“We'll talk presently. Let's get out of the traffic first.”

When they were on a straight road bordered by cabbage fields he stopped the car.

“
Now.
What's all this about? What have you been doing?” His tone was grim.

Half an hour ago Susan might have been meek; she might even have cried and told him things which she didn't really mean to tell him. Now, comfortably conscious of having left Garry miles away and with his mind firmly directed towards the train service, she was in no mood for meekness.

“Anthony—I've got
The Shepheard's Kalendar
—at least I'm sure—oh, I
must
look!
There
—it
is!
Look! I knew it was! Now say I'm clever!” The book, in its needlework cover, lay half on her lap and half on the seat between them. She faced him, glowing with excitement. “Look at it! You're not looking.”

Anthony was looking at her very directly.

“How did you get it? You haven't told me that yet.”

“I've got it—that's all that matters.”

“No, it isn't.” His voice was quite level, but it held an obstinate note. “I want to know how you got it.”

“I can't tell you. It doesn't matter a bit.”

He took the book in his hand without looking at it. He did not look at Susan either.

“I came up to town to look for you. I went to the British Museum, because you told Gran you were going up about
The Shepheard's Kalendar.
When I got there, I saw—” He paused, and then said, without emphasis, “him.”

Susan said, “Oh!”

Anthony balanced the book on his hand.

“It would really be a great deal more convenient if I had a name to call him by.” He paused again. “He keeps cropping up so.”

Susan said nothing at all. She looked at the faded initials on the needlework cover.

“Would you like to tell me his name?”

She shook her head.

“I can't—I told you I couldn't.” She was aware of Anthony frowning.

“He had a parcel under his arm. I suppose it was this.” Then, irrelevantly, “I saw you up at the top window, and I very nearly bashed in the front door.”

Susan lifted sparkling eyes.

“That
would
have been helpful!” She caught him by the arm and shook it. “Anthony, don't let's waste time. We can quarrel
any
day, but to-day there are much more exciting things to do. Do stop glowering and poking out your chin, and listen! I believe there's some sort of cipher here.” She laid her hand over his on the cover of the book. “I'm sure Philip Colstone sent a message to his son. And we can't look for it in an open cabbage field, and I want some tea most frightfully, so what we've got to do is to stop at the first tea place that isn't crowded and see whether I'm right.”