The Watersplash (7 page)

Hearsay word of a dying man, a hypothetical will, a pretty girl who couldn’t even say that she had seen it, and who was doing her best to marry the beneficiary—the story was thin to the vanishing point.

Clarice pushed back her chair.

“I thought you would say that. I suppose anyone would.” She dusted the cake crumbs from her fingers and stood up. “I’ll just have to do the best I can for myself.”

Miss Silver was in two minds whether to answer that or not. She was always to be very glad that she had done so. She put out a detaining hand.

“You must not try to make a profit for yourself out of what you know. In certain circumstances that might be blackmail, which is a very heavily punishable offence. It is also extremely dangerous—for the blackmailer.”

Clarice’s laugh came a little too quickly.

“Who said anything about blackmail?”

“I did. It is not only a criminal practice, but an extremely dangerous one. I think there is something you are afraid of. If you know anything that you have not told me—anything which you ought to tell the police—pray make no delay in doing so. It is not only your duty, but it will be your protection. Let me urge you to think of what I have said, and to dismiss any idea of making a profit out of someone else’s wrongdoing.”

All the colour had drained out of Clarice’s face. Her mouth opened, but the only sound that came from it was a little gasp. Then quite suddenly her face was red with anger. The brightly lipsticked mouth closed with a snap before opening again to say in a voice which had no sweetness left,

“Mind your own business, can’t you!” She snatched at her gloves, her hand bag, and was gone.

Miss Silver did not attempt to follow her. She sat where she was until she had watched the girl pay her bill and leave the shop. Then, with a little shake of the head, she took up her bag and umbrella and made her own way out into the busy street and back to 15 Montague Mansions.

Clarice went back to Greenings in rather a disturbed state of mind. She had come up to collect a few more of her things, since she had now decided that it was probably going to be worth her while to go on putting up with the Miss Blakes for a bit. Now she sat in a third class carriage and was not so sure. She had shaken the dust of the tea-shop floor from her feet in a hurry, but some of the things Miss Silver had said were not so easily left behind. Blackmail! What a thing to say! “Not only a criminal practice but an extremely dangerous one…

There is something you are afraid of… “ She tried to switch her thoughts to something—anything else. What a pity her brown coat and skirt were still at the cleaners. It would be just the thing for Greenings. The red was much smarter, and it was very becoming, but people in the country were so stuffy about what you wore. Any old rag of a tweed and you were all right, but the minute you put on something a little more up-to-date they looked down their noses and said you were overdressed. Edward at eighteen had been illuminatingly frank on the subject. ”My dear girl, you can’t wear that sort of thing down here. It simply isn’t done. “ Clarice had remembered, and the red remained in the box Maisie Long was keeping for her. Her thoughts lingered upon it regretfully.

She was just beginning to plan a new high-necked woollen dress like the one she had seen in that very exclusive Bond Street shop—only of course she would have to make it herself, and it didn’t look difficult, but there was always something that didn’t come out quite right—and there was Miss Maud Silver’s voice coming through like one of those foreign stations on the radio. “Not only a criminal practice but an extremely dangerous one.” What rubbish! And who cared what a stupid old governess said anyhow?

And then Dick Winnington coming in quite strong and clear, as if he had been there in the carriage with her—“They think no end of her at the Yard.” And Miss Silver again—“Not only criminal but dangerous.” The word fell in with the clanging rhythm of the train—dangerous—dangerous—dangerous— dangerous—

She dragged her thoughts back to the stuff for the new dress. Emerald green—a good dark emerald green—those bright emeralds looked common. And a clip at the neck with green stones in it to bring up the colour. There were quite good shops in Embank. She could get the material there and a Vogue pattern to make it up by, as soon as Miss Blake paid her at the end of the week. She meant to make quite sure about getting her money paid down on the nail. Miss Mildred held the purse-strings, and everyone knew how she hated to part with a penny. “But I’m not putting up with any of that sort of thing, and Dr. Croft will back me up if it comes to a show-down.”

A show-down. The word jutted out from the rest of her thoughts and deflected them. Edward—she would have to have a show-down with Edward. He was dodging—making excuses —deliberately getting out of seeing her alone. Well, that meant he was afraid of her—afraid of what she might do to him— afraid of his own feelings. Some men were like that—shy— nervous—wary. Quite impossible to picture Edward as nervous or shy. Well then, he was wary—didn’t want to get involved. She mustn’t frighten him. The thing to do was to hint at something vague and say that she didn’t quite know what to do about it. It could be something that she had got on her mind—something that his Uncle James had said to her before he died. Yes, that was the way to go about it—“And, Edward, I thought you ought to know, because, you see, I’ve been away, and it’s been quite a shock to come down here and find that it is your Uncle Arnold who has come in for everything.” Yes, that would be the way to do it, only she must lead up to it gradually, so as to make sure of their having to go on meeting and talking about it. She mustn’t say too much at once—just be upset and having something on her conscience, so as to spin it out and keep him guessing. There wasn’t anything wrong about that, was there? Too silly for words to mind what a stupid old maid like Miss Silver said— The iron clang of the train came jangling through: “Dangerous—dangerous—dangerous—”

Edward went on being extremely busy. Taking over from old Barr was a leisurely process. Right in the middle of going through the books he would come upon an item for the repair of a roof and sit there wagging a finger and meandering through four or five generations of the family which had lived in the cottage for the past two hundred years. If Edward thought that he knew this corner of the country pretty well, he was being obliged to eat humble pie. Mr. Barr’s father and his grandfathers up to a great-great-great had lived and carried on an avocation of some sort or another upon the estate acquired in more recent times by Lord Burlingham, and what he did not know about the families rich, poor and middling within a radius of twenty miles was not worth knowing.

“Littleton Grange,” he would say—“that was a place we took over. Now my great-grandfather had a story about one of the daughters there. Round about seventeen-forty-seven it would be. The young man she was to have married had got himself mixed up with the Jacobite rebellion, and she ran off to France and married him. That was the truth of it, but the family gave out she died of smallpox. It was an empty coffin they buried. My father remembered his grandfather saying so, and when they opened the vault to put away the last of the family a matter of seventy years ago, he was there, and he said it was true enough, for he saw the coffin himself, with the side fallen in and as empty as your hand.”

Then when they had been going on for a bit he would come out with a yam about Betsey Fulgrove who was ducked for a witch on Burlingham Green—“The same his Lordship picked to take his title from. And you can say what you like, but all I know is that when my grandfather had to see about the dry rot in the floor of what used to be her cottage they came on the bones of an infant wrapped in a fine linen sheet, so when Betsey died of her ducking—and die she did—it’s likely enough she got no more than her deserts.”

Edward found it extraordinarily soothing. Old Barr, with his ruddy, wrinkled face and the tang of the country on his tongue. Rural England, and the slow procession of the individual lives which go to make its history. The rise and fall of a family. The coming in of a new fashion of farming or a new breed of cattle, accepted sometimes after long doubt and debate, more often rejected and remembered as somebody’s “Folly.” There was a fellow who said he had got a new way of brewing —that was in Barr’s great-grandfather’s time. There were fads, fancies and follies enough. There was sin, failure, and reviving. There was crime, and murder, and sudden death. There was the year when the Plague came to Embank. There was the year of the great storm that sent the spire of St. Luke’s in Littleton crashing right through the roof into the middle aisle. There were endless stories about an innumerable variety of people.

After a time it began to come slowly into Edward’s mind that whatever had happened to him, he did not stand alone. He was one of a company, even here in this small corner of England, who through the centuries had struggled, suffered, failed, sinned and repented, or sinned and sinned again—some leaving the world better for the struggle, and some leaving it worse. As the days went by, things in him which had been dead began to quicken—not all at once and not all the time, but now and again. For an hour—or two—for the part of a day or a night, there was a warming and a waking—a time when the currents of thought ran normally—hours of the night when he slept and did not dream.

On the day after Clarice had been up to London he sat in what Mr. Barr called the front parlour of the agent’s house. It had a bow window looking on to a neat garden, and a double set of curtains, lace ones next to the glass, and very old plush ones drawn across the bay. It was seven o’clock in the evening and they were drawn now, making the room a good deal smaller than it was by day. It was full of tobacco-smoke and rather hot. Impervious to the weather out of doors, when he was at home Mr. Barr preferred shut windows and a nice bright fire. He was a short man, broad in the shoulder and broad in the beam. His strong white hair curled all over his head, and it was his boast that he could still keep his books without a pair of spectacles to help him. If the parish register had not been there to give away his age, no one could have guessed him to be eighty-five. He might be going to retire, but Edward was under no illusions as to its being a very genuine retirement. As long as old Barr had a finger to poke into a Burlingham pie, that finger would not only be poked but it would be in it right up to the hilt and stirring vigorously.

The books had been closed. Old Barr was filling himself another pipe.

“And you needn’t think I’ll be interfering with you once I’ve handed over, because that’s the last thing I’ll do.”

Edward was on his feet and ready to go. He laughed and said,

“I certainly expect you’ll be doing it right up to the last, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not expecting anything else, so don’t worry about it.”

Old Barr chuckled.

“I’m not worrying. Never made a habit of it, and what you don’t make a habit of don’t have a chance of getting hold of you. Men don’t worry a lot, I find—not nearly so much as the women. Real bad worriers women are, and wives are the worst of the lot. One of the things that put me off marrying was hearing the way they go on. If it isn’t their husbands it’s their children, and if it isn’t their children it’s their clothes, or their hens, or their cats, or their dogs, or what their neighbors think. No woman’s going to put her worrying on me—that’s what I made up my mind to more than sixty years ago, and none of them has ever got me from it!” He chuckled and drew at his pipe. “I won’t say some of ’em didn’t have a pretty good try, but I held my own with ’em—I held my own. A respectable person to come in for the cooking and cleaning—that’s all I want, and that’s all I’ll have, and Mrs. Stokes, she does what I want. You can’t expect a woman not to talk, but she keeps it within bounds, and that’s as much as anyone can look for.” He dived into a baggy pocket and came out with a screw of paper. “Here’s that chap’s name—the one I was telling you about, Christopher Hale. Came to me in the night, and I got up and wrote it down and put it in my pocket. Must be getting old, or I wouldn’t have to wait for a name to come back to me. But here it is for you—Christopher Hale—drowned in the splash eighteen-thirty-nine. I was round by the churchyard this morning and I went and had a look. The stone was put up by Kezia, his wife, with a lot of fancy verses. And my grandfather always did say she believed her husband was murdered. Maybe he wasn’t, and maybe he was. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be so easy to drown natural in the splash—would it now?”

The small, very bright blue eyes of old Barr looked sharply at Edward from under a thatch of white woolly eyebrow.

Edward said,

“Oh, I don’t know—a chap might if he’d had one or two over the eight—just as William Jackson did the other day.”

The sharp gaze persisted for a moment. Then Mr. Barr swung round and kicked at a log in the fire. It broke in a shower of sparks. He came about again and said, bluff and casual,

“Oh, well, that’s as may be, but Kezia always thought her husband had been murdered.”

Edward went out into a dark cloudy evening. The air was cold and fresh after Barr’s fuggy room. There was a good driving road to Embank, and a lane about a mile away which connected it with Greenings, but he took the bridle-path through Lord Burlingham’s woods and came out upon the rough track which led down to the splash, a saving of nearly half a mile and pleasanter walking at that. He liked the crack of a stick under foot, the stir in the undergrowth which told of other creatures abroad on their no doubt unlawful occasions. Only who was man that he should say to fox or rabbit, badger, stoat or cat, “I only have the right to hunt”?

He walked on, not hurrying. The nights were getting colder. These woods were very old. There were oaks that must have stood five hundred years, yews that were older still. He had seen a map of the county dated 1469, and it showed forest right across this corner, and since then owner after owner had come and gone. Norman names, English names—tombs in the churchyard, brasses in the church. And in the end Lord Burlingham taking his name, as they all had done, from Burlingham village three miles away. He had been born Tom Thomson and had run barefoot and sold papers in the streets when he was a boy, and now he was Lord of the Manor like all the rest of them had been. The new trees grew up amongst the old, and they were strong and lusty.

He came out from among the trees into the track where it sloped towards the splash. The sound of the running water came to him. The stream was swollen still, but the stepping-stones should be clear of it if not too dry. He put on his torch, came over easily, and had before him the slope on the other side, with the church to the right, its shape just distinguishable against the sky, and the black smear running down from it which was the old yew way. He put out his torch as soon as he was over the splash, and where his eyes did not serve him memory did.

He was passing the lych gate, when something moved there. A voice said,

“Edward, is that you?” The words came on a hurried breath.

The voice shook a little.

It was Clarice Dean’s voice, and it annoyed him sharply. What did she think she was doing, waiting about for him like this? Because waiting for him she undoubtedly was. She could have no possible business up at the church, and since it was all of twenty past seven, the Vicarage would be hotting its soup or doing whatever you did do to fish or eggs preparatory to producing them at the evening meal. He spoke her name with an involuntary sharpness.

“Clarice!”

She came running over the grass verge to link her arm with his.

“Edward, you don’t know how glad I am to see you! Not that one can see anything in this horrid dark, but I saw your torch, and I didn’t think it could be anyone else, because Mrs. Deacon says you always come this way and hardly anyone else does—not now poor William Jackson—” She broke off, catching her breath. “Do you know, I thought of the horridest things waiting there in the dark! Your boots squelched when you came up from the splash!”

“I got them wet. There’s quite a lot of water in the stream.”

She dug her fingers into his arm.

“I know! But I thought how awful it would be if it wasn’t you at all—if it was—William Jackson—coming up all wet— out of the splash!”

Edward’s voice was quite odiously practical.

“I never heard of a ghost with a torch.”

She shivered up against him.

“Well, you don’t think of those sort of things when you are frightened, and I’m not used to the dark like all you country people.”

He laughed without amusement.

“Well, there’s an easy answer to that—you have only to stay at home.”

They had been walking, not because Clarice wanted to, but because Edward was being determined about it and Clarice had either to keep pace with him or let go of his arm.

“Edward, for goodness’ sake don’t go tearing along like this! Why do you suppose I came down that horrid place in the dark if it wasn’t the only way I could get hold of you? Either you are never in, or Susan is there, and—there’s something I want to talk to you about!”

“Well, let go of my arm, and you can talk as you go along. I suppose you know you’ve been pinching me black and blue?”

If anything, her clasp tightened.

“Edward, it’s important—it really is! I mean, it’s important for you—it’s something I think I ought to tell you!”

They were past the churchyard now, and the Vicarage gate. The cottage where old Mrs. Stone lived with her bedridden daughter was in sight. The light in Betsey Stone’s room shone cheerfully through the bright red curtains which had been a Christmas present from Emmeline. Other lights twinkled in the houses beyond. Edward considered that even Clarice could hardly do much confiding in the village street. The Miss Blakes’ house was in sight. He said,

“Well, do you know, I think it had better be some other time. We ought both to be getting along. I’m going to be late for supper as it is, and I should think you would have to watch your step with Miss Mildred, so if you don’t mind—”

He had quickened his step. They were almost level with the cottage now. Clarice felt her chance slipping away. And she had planned to be so careful. She hadn’t meant to hurry him. Why couldn’t he stand still for a bit, flirt with her a little, give her a chance of leading up to what she had to say? He wasn’t giving her any help at all. She had a feeling of urgency —as if this was to be her only chance, and if she let it go it wouldn’t come again. She said,

“You don’t understand! It isn’t about myself, it’s about you! It’s about your uncle’s will!”

She could not have said anything more fatal. The old defensive anger flared.

“I haven’t the slightest intention of discussing my uncle’s will! You will please leave the subject alone!”

“But, Edward—you don’t let me explain—”

“Haven’t I made myself clear? I don’t want any explanation, or any interference in my affairs! You will be good enough to mind your own business, and to leave mine alone! Is that sufficiently plain?”

They were level with the cottage now. The door was opening. Old Mrs. Stone stood there, bent and shapeless, with a candle in her hand showing a visitor out. The candlelight flickered on Susan Wayne.

Clarice must have seen them before he did. She was looking that way, whilst he was looking at her. Why hadn’t she stopped him? They must have heard the anger in his voice, if not his actual words. The thought sprang up in the dismay that filled his mind.

Then, before he could stop her, Clarice was clinging to him and sobbing.

“Edward—darling—don’t be so angry! I can’t bear it! It frightens me! Oh, Edward!”

Susan’s voice came clearly across the short, the very short, distance which separated them from the cottage door.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Stone—and don’t stand here in the cold.”

She came to them, running.

“Who is it? I can’t see… Oh, Clarice… What is it—have you sprained your ankle or something? How stupid! Here, I’ll come round on your other side, and you can lean on me as well. Hold up—we’ll get you home.” She raised her voice and called back over her shoulder, “It’s all right, Mrs. Stone. She’s only turned her ankle. You go back to Betsey.”