The Lighthearted Quest (25 page)

“Oh, he is
employed,
is he?” Mrs. Hathaway had asked, promptly and quietly seizing on that ill-chosen and unfortunate phrase. “Who by? The Bank of England, or the Government?”

Mr, Consett's representation of a writhing worm had become more life-like than ever at that question. He stammered, hedged, contradicted himself, and had finally begged Mrs. Hathaway not to press him on a subject on which he was not free to speak. “In fact I really know no more than I have told you, that he can't leave this work, whatever it is. I was not told what it was.”

“Official work, anyhow,” Mrs. Hathaway responded smoothly.

“I felt that I ought to warn Julia not to go on poking about,” Mr. Consett had said then, rather unhappily—“but she has never answered my letter. Do you know where she is, and what she is up to?”

“She's working at archaeology with an old lady in Tangier,” Mrs. Hathaway had replied.

“Oh, with Mme La Besse! Good—that will amuse her, and keep her out of mischief.” Mr. Consett had seemed considerably relieved at this news, displaying what Mrs. Hathaway felt to be undue optimism, in Julia's case. But she had merely listened sympathetically to his praises of Julia, promised discretion on the subject of Colin, and sent the young man away comforted.

All this was in her mind now as she sat in the ugly pleasant drawing-room at Glentoran, and answered Edina's question. “Has she written to you?” she asked the girl in her turn.

“Yes—I got this last week,” said Edina; she pulled the operative portion of Julia's double letter out of the pocket of her porridge-coloured tweed jacket and handed it across the hearth. Mrs. Hathaway read it, and handed it back.

“She doesn't seem to be getting on very fast, does she?” Edina observed.

“Not very—though I wonder whether anyone else would have got on any faster, supposing there was anyone else available,” said Mrs. Hathaway thoughtfully. “It seems a complicated business.”

“Did she tell you about the hush job too?”

“Oh, yes—and how frightfully frustrated she felt.”

“I wonder what on earth it can be. Intelligence or something do you suppose?” Edina speculated. “You'd hardly think they'd take on an ex-smuggler for that!” she said, with a small grin.

“Oh, I don't know. Poachers made such wonderful Commandos,” said Mrs. Hathaway blandly.

Edina grinned again—then her face clouded; she put out a long slender leg and stirred the logs on the fire with her foot, restlessly.

“Look, Mrs. H., I expect it is all very difficult for Julia, but it's a month now since she went—and I can't stay up here for
ever,” the girl said; as she spoke she clicked her right thumb out of joint, making a small, soft, sickening sound. Mrs. Hathaway recognised this family trick as a bad sign, in Edina as in her brother.

“I know you can't, Edina,” she said. “Tell me this—how much longer
can
you stay, without jeopardising this special work that was waiting till you get back?”

Edina looked gratefully at her mother's friend. Who but Mrs. Hathaway would have remembered that there was a particular job waiting on her return?

“Another month, at the very outside,” she said.

“Then I should advertise for a temporary factor at once—unless you know of someone. If you can pick up a suitable person within the next fortnight you could show him the ropes and get him into the saddle before you go back to London.”

Edina gave a startled glance at the older woman.

“Good Lord! Why do you say that?”

“Well, you must go back in a month, and what guarantee can we have that Julia will find Colin, let alone haul him home off this secret mission of his, in four weeks? Surely the estate can stand six months of a junior factor's salary?—especially in view of what you earn yourself.”

“Well, yes—I suppose it might,” said Edina thoughtfully. Suddenly she glanced rather suspiciously at Mrs. Hathaway.

“Why do you suggest that?—not that I'm saying it isn't a good idea. Do you know something I don't know about this?”

“No,” Mrs. Hathaway said smoothly, remembering Mr. Consett's agonised face, and lying in the grand manner. “I'm simply going on the facts we have. Colin is doing a job so ‘hush', as you all call it, that even Julia's friend Mr. Lynch, on the spot, can't find out what it is; we assume that it must be something more or less official, because the transfer of his account to Morocco was allowed. But if—or when—Julia does find him, is it likely that he can or will throw up such a job
to come home at a moment's notice? I should hardly have thought so.”

“No—I getcher,” said Edina vulgarly. “I dare say not.” She reflected, no longer looking suspicious, and stopped clicking her thumb-joint in and out, to Mrs. Hathaway's great relief—the older woman loathed this particular inherited trait. “There was that boy who was at Cirencester with Colin, what's this his name was?—who went to the Mackenzies to understudy their old factor and train on, but he chucked it after a time.”

“Was he no good?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. Burns, the factor, was an appalling old toad in his own right, and I expect put it across poor Struthers—
that
was the name, Jimmy Struthers—good and proper, because one day he was to step into his shoes. I don't really know how much use he was.”

“Can you get hold of him?”

“I'll write to Maisie Mackenzie. I think they rather liked him, and I'm sure she'll know his address. I'll ask her to ask Roddy how much good he was, and what they thought of his work, Burns apart. Mrs. H. dear, what a boon you are!”

“Failing him, you might try for Julia's officer with the beard,” remarked Mrs. Hathaway lightly. “He sounds very knowledgeable.”

“Yes, he does, doesn't he? We might have a stab at him if Jimmy's no go,” said Edina in the same tone, getting up and going over to sit at her mother's confused writing-table. There she swivelled round in her chair towards the guest.

“There's one other letter I think we might write,” she said—“I mean to Colin himself, care of that bank in Casablanca. You remember we didn't before, when Julia was here, because she was going out and we all thought she would find him quite quickly. But don't you think we might, now?”

“They don't sound very helpful,” said Mrs. Hathaway.

“No—very much the contrary! But surely, however tatty
they are about
giving
information about a client, a bank can hardly hold up letters to him, can they?”

“I simply don't know. No, I suppose not. Anyhow I think it is quite worth trying, Edina.”

“Good so. Right, I'll get going—if you will excuse me? I'd like to get them done before lunch—the Macdonalds are coming.”

“With Ronan? Then Olimpia is sure to give us quite superlative food,” said Mrs. Hathaway contentedly.

“Oh Lord, yes—
ne plus ultra!
God, where
has
Mother put the writing-paper?”

While Mrs. Hathaway, the Monros and the Macdonalds were eating Olimpia's exquisite food at luncheon at Glentoran, the rain as usual beating and streaming on the window-panes, which rattled in frequent savage gusts of wind, Julia and Mr. Keller were sitting in blazing sunshine on a heathy slope above a Moroccan highway, also eating their lunch—Julia, in an unwonted fit of mercifulness, had ordered cold veal this time instead of raw ham, and there were tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs; a bottle of local red wine was propped among the rust-stemmed, dark green leaves, so neat and small, of a pistachio-bush. Tiny blue scillas starred the reddish earth, and a minute mauve daisy; here and there a cistus, hardily, had opened an odd bloom—the air was warm and fragrant. Steve was a good driver, fast but safe; they were already in the Spanish Zone. And when they resumed their drive he deposited her at the Espagnola soon after two-thirty.

“Come in and have another lunch,” she invited him.

“Now?”
the American exclaimed, glancing at his watch.

“Yes. This is a Spanish place—they'll hardly have begun.”

So Steve went in, and Julia watched with amusement his efforts to control his expression of dismay over the abundant oil and garlic of the Espagnola food. He wanted to take her to a movie, but Julia refused saying that she must unpack
and deal with her mail, so as to be ready to start work next morning.

“It still seems silly, you having to work,” the American said, looking hard at her.

“Oh, no, it's fun. Thank you
so
much for bringing me—it was a lovely drive.”

“Thanks nothing!—you know I loved it.” He wrung her hand rather hard. “I'll be seeing you again—I know where you are, now. Maybe you'll come up to Meknes some time, to look at that gate.”

After the American had driven off Julia did read her letters and unpack, and rang up Mme La Besse to say that she had returned and would be round in the morning. But her real reason for wishing to get rid of Steve was that she wanted to get to the bar early to see Purcell. If he proved to know a good deal more than he had told her, which she thought quite likely, it was important to twiddle it out of him. Watching palm-trees outside her window tossing their heads in Tangier's sea-wind, she gave a good deal of thought as to the best means of doing this. Try the familiar technique of displaying some of her newly-won information, which had worked so painfully well with Mr. St John? Perhaps—though Purcell was rather a different proposition. Anyhow she promised herself a little fun with the all-knowing Purcell, since she had learned so unexpectedly much.

So, gay and feeling rather “on her day”, she walked down across the Gran Socco, where the great plane-trees behind the wall of the Mendoubia gardens stood up golden in the evening light, through the crowded alleys of the Medina, and down the Socco Chico. It was nice to be back in Tangier; even her short absence had increased her sense of being at home there.

At Purcell's Bar this happy mood received a check. Julia had expected the door to be locked, for it was still very early; but when the little Moor opened it he announced that Mr. Purcell was not in, and he did not know when he would return. At this perfectly normal statement Julia had a moment, suddenly, of quite irrational panic. Her dismay revealed to her, rather to her own surprise, how much she had come to rely on that strange personality and how confidently she had been looking forward to this meeting with him. She turned slowly
away, realising for the first time how isolated she was in this quest of hers. Lady Tracy up on her cliff-top was full of sympathy and good-will, but had not done anything, and she had fatally alienated poor old Mr. St John. Except for Purcell there was in fact
no one
to help her; if he was going to close his door—like that horrible door in the Kasbah—she might as well give up and go home, as Mr. St John had advised. And at that very moment, as she was about to turn back into the Socco Chico, Purcell's voice said—“Oh, good evening. Were you coming in? I am so sorry I was out—won't you come back?”

No sight could have been more welcome to Julia just then than that odd, half-negro face, no words more welcome than this greeting.

“Yes, I was—and I will,” she said, turning and walking beside him. “Mahomet said you were out—but of course I am early.”

Purcell let them in with his latchkey and passed straight round behind the bar, hanging up his hat as he went—from there, with his usual courteous formality, he asked her what she would take?

“A Martini, please.” But she did not sit down at her usual table in the narrow portion immediately opposite the bar; she walked on in to the inner room and sat in a corner—Purcell brought her drink there.

“Is it permitted to ask how you got on in Fez?” he asked.

“Yes—and it's permitted to sit, too.”

He sat at the next table.

“I got on rather well, really,” said Julia very cheerfully. Purcell cocked one of those surprising grey eyes of his at her tone.

“You saw Bathyadis?”

“Yes indeed. I bought one of those velvet trunks of his,” said Julia, her own eyes on his face.

He gave her a keen glance.

“Ah.” He paused; Julia guessed that he was wondering if she meant more than what she said. “Why did you do that?” he asked at length.

“I'll give you three guesses!” said Julia, laughing—this was the fun she had promised herself. He looked at her, something like concern coming slowly into his face, but he said nothing. “You won't guess?” she went on. “Shall I guess for you? Because it was so pretty?—right. Because Mr. St John helped me to get it cheap?—right again.” Purcell looked relieved. “Because I thought it might be useful to take something out of Morocco in, without its being recognised for what it was?” Julia pursued. “What is your answer to that one, Mr. Purcell?”

The man got up and came over to her.

“It would appear that you have not wasted your time in Fez,” he said.

“No, I haven't. I'm only teasing—I am really infinitely grateful to you for sending me there.”

“Thank you. I should however very much like to hear more.”

Yes, and how I found it out, wouldn't you? Julia thought to herself. Aloud she said—“Oh, I have quite a bit to tell you. But I should rather like to begin by asking some questions myself.”

He looked faintly amused.

“Ladies first!—though I am not very fond of telling.”

Julia hesitated for a moment. There were so many things to ask Purcell that she hardly knew where to begin. She plumped for the display-of-knowledge technique.

“Why did you stall when I asked you about the man with the red hair? Why didn't you tell me that my cousin is working with him?”

Purcell gave a start.

“Did Mr. St John tell you this?” he asked sharply.