The Forgotten Story (25 page)

As he passed the parlour he heard Captain Shaw's thick voice: ‘Aye, aye, Mrs Veal, I grant you that. But how was I to know ye had the ace?'

He slipped out through the back door and was rather upset to find a thin mist lying over the river. There would in any case be no moon tonight, and he had hoped the stars would be out. At present the mist lay on the water more than over the town, but as the night advanced it might spread, and he had never been to Maenporth in his life.

All his cautious, baby instincts told him to give up the project; the thought of creeping upstairs again and sliding between the sheets suddenly became infinitely desirable; he could put the visit off until tomorrow when the weather might be better – or even until Saturday when Tom would be home at Penryn. He might go all the way and be unable to find the house. If the fog came down he might even lose his way and wander through the secret little lanes all night. Then the fat would be in the fire; if Aunt Madge knew he had been out she would take care that he didn't go again. Better to return.

But there was growing up in Anthony already an obstinate dislike of being overborne by his weaker instincts. He quietly shut the door behind him and put on his mackintosh and cap and a scarf. In this life you had to do what you meant to do or else shrivel up in self-contempt.

He set off at a trot. The faster he moved the sooner he would be there, the sooner he was there the less chance there was of Tom's being in bed, the sooner he was back the better prospect he had of slipping in before the door was locked.

Up Killigrew Street and across Western Terrace and down the hill to Swanpool. There were still plenty of lights about and a number of pedestrians. The grey mist began to move around him in waves, increasing when he got near the sea, but it was not a cold mist and he was soon perspiring. By the time he had passed the cemetery and reached the bottom of the hill it was bellows-to-mend, and he fell into a walk. The swans were asleep, hidden somewhere in the rushes, and ahead of him the waves cracked dismally and rattled on the pebbly beach. The sound was sad and old and impersonal, as if it spoke of creation and decay.

From the mouth of the little cove he mounted the next hill and thought he would never get to the top of it. Then by great good fortune he came upon a pony and trap turning out of a side lane.

‘Please, sir, is this the way to Maenporth?' he called up into the darkness.

‘Ais, sonny. Straight acrost the moor, then down-along the hill and turn … Are 'ee going thur? Jump up, I'll give'ee a lift.'

Anthony accepted the invitation, glad not only of the lift but of the company. The farmer was curious to know what a youngster like him was doing out past his bedtime, but he evaded a direct answer until they had gone down another steep hill and through a narrow thickly wooded lane which came out once again within sound of the sea.

‘Now, son, this is whar'ee do want to go. Down this yur path: that 'ouse nigh buried 'midst the trees: that's Mrs Lanyon's 'ouse. This old broom of a fog. See it now, do'ee?
Tha's
a boy. Now, Emmie,
ck, ck
, come on, my 'andsome …'

Anthony walked down the dark, muddy lane towards where the gables of a sizeable house showed among the fir trees. The sigh of the sea was abruptly cut off by the dripping hedges as he walked up the short shingle drive and pulled the front-door bell.

There were lighted windows in the front of the house and a glimmer in the hall which increased as a uniformed maid turned up the lamp before opening the door.

‘Yes?' she said.

‘Is Mr Tom Harris staying here, please?'

‘Well …'

‘Could I see him, please? He …'

‘He's busy now. What do you want?'

‘Tell him it's Anthony. He asked me to call.'

The maid hesitated, then opened the door. ‘You'd best come in. You'll have to wait, I expect.'

With a sense of timidity the boy entered the hall and the maid turned the lamp up. Hunting trophies and a few shields came to view and peered down at him suspiciously. Then the maid went into a room on the left and he caught sight of a well-lit drawing-room and people sitting round on chairs. At the end of the room was a piano and several people standing up with violins and things.

She reappeared. ‘He said for you to wait. He said he'd not be long.'

‘Thank you.' When he was alone he stopped twirling his cap and dropped it on a chair and sat on it. Wisps of fog had followed him into the hall. Then someone began to play the piano in the room. It was a pleasant sort of piece to listen to, not with any detectable tune but a lot of nice ripples running up and down, up and down, like the sea coming in on a sunny day.

The music suddenly became louder and was damped again as Tom Harris slid out of the room through the smallest gap he could make in the door. He came towards the boy smiling and handsome and gentlemanly in a black evening dress suit.

‘Hullo, Anthony; this is a surprise. Come in here. My sister's having a musical evening. You've some news?'

He led the way into a small library, taking with him the hall lamp. Usually Anthony had seen him in tweeds, and he was suddenly struck by the different worlds in which Tom and Patricia revolved. Patricia had hinted as much to him, but he had never personally realised what she meant until now. Tom was a gentleman. Pat, although he had never known her to be the least bit common or vulgar, was not quite what the world at present understood as a lady. Tom had been brought up to find his pleasures in this sort of an evening: people dressed for dinner and having musical evenings and card parties and the rest. Pat had spent her evenings in the atmosphere of the restaurant. Even though she no longer did so the deeper differences remained. This was another gap between them, perhaps wider and deeper than their lovers' quarrels.

Anthony did not reason all this out, for he hadn't the time or the experience; what he sensed was the outlines of the difference, and, aware of himself as a connection of Pat's, he felt the inferiority for her. Then he told his story, forgetting social complexes as he went on.

In silence Tom heard him out almost to the end.

‘Do you think he was lying to you this afternoon? What makes you sure? Did you read the document you found?'

‘Yes. It wasn't the same.'

‘In what way did it differ?'

‘The Will I found seemed to leave the – the property nearly all to Pat. I think it just left the restaurant business to Aunt Madge, but I didn't get a chance of reading it all through.'

‘Any other divergence?'

‘Di …'

‘Difference between what you found and what he showed you.'

‘Yes. Well … what I saw Uncle Joe put behind the picture and what Uncle Perry showed me can't be the same thing. I saw Uncle Joe sign the other, and the captain and mate of the
Lady Tregeagle
witnessed it. The thing Uncle Perry showed me wasn't signed or witnessed.'

‘I wish you'd told me this before, Anthony, before investigating yourself.'

‘I know … I know. Sorry.' He could not quite explain the complex pull of loyalties which had made him reluctant to inform against his aunt in such a way as to make it obvious that he did not trust her.

‘You see we've nothing at all to go on. If the Will was as you say, they – well, they may have destroyed it. Then it's only your word against his.'

‘But there's the captain and mate of the
Lady Tregeagle
. I don't know –'

‘When
Lady Tregeagle
left she was going to Alexandria. She may pick up another cargo there and be months returning. And, of course, their testimony proves very little without a document to back it up.'

‘But if they said –'

‘Yes, I know.' Tom began to walk up and down the room. ‘ If the mate and captain of the
Lady Tregeagle
were prepared to swear that they had witnessed on such and such a date a Will made by Joe Veal, and you swore that you had found such a Will, your aunt would be in a very difficult position morally. But legally, without the document we could save our breath. Besides, Joe being so secretive as he was, it's unlikely he told the captain and the mate what it was they were signing. I'm afraid, old boy, that there's nothing to be done.'

Anthony stared up at the young solicitor as he turned from the window. All that day and for three days before, a conviction had burned in him that his actions of the other night had irrevocably destroyed his hopes of helping Pat. Tom's attitude confirmed this. But the odd thing was that he felt Tom did not care. He remembered Tom's attitude once before when he had seemed relieved that Pat had been cut out of her father's Will. If Tom really loved Patricia he should be more concerned for her future than his own gain – even supposing that there would be any gain to him in Pat's loss, which at present seemed unlikely. He personally might have made a complete failure of his attempt to help, but it was wrong to treat the news with indifference. After the excitement of stealing out of the house and the long run and the drive through the mist Anthony felt suddenly let down. He had brought news of vital importance; possibly he was too late with it, but the only chance of not being too late was to take some action at once. He had not stopped to reason what action
could
be taken: Tom would know that; the main thing was to get the information to him. Let Tom turn on him furiously now for his mistakes if he chose, but not treat the information as if it did not matter.

Harris stopped and looked at the boy with his intent brown eyes. ‘Does anyone else know of this?'

Anthony shook his head.

‘Do you think Perry knows you suspect him of lying?'

‘No. I don't think so.'

‘Has he any idea that you've come here?'

‘Oh, no.'

‘Well, then, he mustn't have. You realise that, Anthony. He mustn't have any idea. We must keep this a dead secret between ourselves.'

‘What are you going to do?'

Tom shrugged. ‘What is there to do? I'll make further inquiries, but it's most essential that Perry shouldn't know we're suspicious. Do understand that. Because – because, you see, if he so much as suspects a thing the new Will, if it still exists, is likely to be burnt. Give him time, Anthony. There's nothing to hurt for a day or two. Give him time.'

Faintly to their ears came the sound of applause as the pianist finished her second piece.

‘I'd better be going,' said Anthony.

‘Has Patricia been over since I saw you last?'

‘No.'

Tom said: ‘You can't walk straight back. I'll get you some sandwiches and something to drink.'

He protested that he didn't want anything, but Tom left the room and presently returned with a dish of tongue sandwiches and a cup of steaming coffee.

‘If you wait an hour,' he said, ‘Mr and Mrs Vellenoweth will be driving back to Falmouth and can give you a lift.'

‘I'd rather go, Tom. You see, they might miss me. It's not very far, and …'

‘Perhaps you're right. It was sporting of you to come here like this. Will you have tea with me at Mount House next Sunday?'

He met Tom's eyes for a moment. ‘Oh, I don't suppose there'll be anything fresh by then.'

‘Come, anyhow.'

‘I'll try. Sometimes Aunt Madge wants me to go out with her.'

As Tom saw him to the door, string instruments could be heard tuning up in the drawing-room. Tom put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Don't think I'm unmindful of your help, Anthony. It has been worth a good deal to me, and we shall get over this disappointment. To have known that another Will has existed is a big step forward. Even that much will mean a great deal to Pat, to feel that her father fully forgave her. I'll warrant she'd as soon know that as know that the money was actually hers.'

‘Ye-es.'

‘One thing I want you to promise me.'

Anthony twirled his cap and peered out into the misty darkness which was soon to receive him.

‘If Patricia should by any chance come home this weekend, I want you to promise not to breathe a word of this to her.'

‘But –'

‘I want you to
promise
.'

Anthony twirled his cap. ‘It's her money. I couldn't …'

‘Nevertheless I want you to.'

In the distance could be heard the faint hush-hush of the sea. Near at hand water was dripping into water.

‘We agreed to trust each other, didn't we?' said Tom.

‘Ye-es.'

‘Well, I want you to trust me on this point. I want you to promise not to tell her anything about this new Will until after you've seen me again.'

‘But why?'

‘Why? Well, it's for her good that she shouldn't know, I assure you.'

Anthony eventually promised. Unless he wished to quarrel with Tom and accuse him of not playing fair he could hardly do otherwise, and he hadn't the courage to do that to his face. Besides, he had no real facts to go on, only a sense of general disappointment.

But when he promised he did so with his fingers crossed, like they did at school when the speaker was supposed to be absolved from doing what he said. He knew in his heart that this was only a moral quibble which really evaded nothing; he had never used, it before in any serious matter. But his new-growing duplicity was finding many oudets.

If the opportunity came he knew he would tell Pat everything.

The night received him like an over-attentive and slightly sinister friend; its damp embrace cloyed, and he pulled off his muffler as soon as he was in the lane. There was no air, only a drifting mist which had to be breathed in wet and breathed out in a finer form as if the moisture had been refined into steam.

The fog was thicker than when he had gone in. Branches dripped high overhead and somewhere near water was running in a ditch. After the lights of the house he was quite blind, and he had to grope his way foot by foot in the direction of the main road. But he was used to darkness from his Exmoor days and as his pupils expanded he began to move more freely. Once the road to Falmouth was reached there were few chances of going wrong; only one sharp-right turn to take at the top of the hill.