Walk with Care (9 page)

“Will you do something—if I ask you?”

Jeremy said, “Yes.”

Then her look clouded again.

“Perhaps it's too late for that—”

“What were you going to ask me to do?”

She came quite close and touched his arm. Her voice went away to nothing.

“Go away.”

“Now?”

She shook her head.

“No—right away—from your job—from London—if it isn't too late.”

“I couldn't do that, Rachel.”

“Couldn't you?
Couldn't
you?”

He said, “I'm sure it's too late,” and saw the trouble in her face.

She said, “You're not in a very safe place,” and Jeremy started, because that was what Gilbert Denny had said in his dream.

“I don't care about being safe or not being safe—I want to see you again.”

“It's no good. I can't help you—you can't help me. Please let me go. You said you would.”

“Will you come here to-morrow?”

“No.”

“The next day?”

“Not any day. I'm going now. If you follow me, it will be a dreadful thing for me. You won't—will you?”

Jeremy said, “No.”

She put her hand into his, and he felt how cold it was, and how it trembled. He held it in a hard, warm clasp, and wanted to kiss it. As if she knew what was in his mind, she pulled it away from him. Her lips said, “Good-bye.” Her eyes said, “Please, Jeremy.”

She ran down the path into the main walk and passed out of his sight.

CHAPTER XIV

JEREMY TURNED, WALKED BACK
to the bench, and sat down. He wanted to think. This was the third time that he had seen Rachel, and each time she had come and gone like a puff of wind, or a wreath of smoke, or a dream. Why could she not tell him her name? Why did his name bring that look of terror to her face? Why had she left him and forbidden him to follow?

He had no answer to these questions. He only felt and knew with some deep inner sense that they would meet again. He had never felt such a nearness to any human being. It was the very strangest thing, as if her fear was his fear, and her trouble his trouble. There seemed to be no barrier between them. It was this that made the strangeness, because how could she go away if they were as near as that? She could not really leave him.

When he reached this point, his mind became suddenly clear and confident. Nothing else mattered in the least. The sun shone from a clear sky.

He looked round, and saw that he was not alone upon the bench. An elderly man was sitting at the other end of it reading in a shabby little book. He wore hornrimmed glasses, and had an air of distinction. A shagreen spectacle-case, which had evidently fallen from his knee, lay upon the gravel path midway between Jeremy and himself. Jeremy stooped, picked it up, slid a little nearer, and proffered it.

“Is this yours, sir?”

The elderly gentleman looked up from his book. His manner was courteous but a little abstracted.

“Thank you—thank you very much indeed. Had I dropped it?”

“It was on the path.”

“Very careless of me,” said Mr Smith. “I am afraid I am a careless person. I was enjoying the observations of the Reverend Henry Harte, who, writing rather more than two hundred years ago, is much troubled by the waste of what he terms the ‘Gifts of Providence.' ‘For,' he says,”—Mr Smith here turned a discoloured page—“‘we perceive on every Bough such a Quantity of small Fowls wholly occupied in a wanton Chirping and Singing as might with great Profit be made Use of in Pyes.' He particularly mentions Larks and Nightingales as being ‘delicate and succulent Fare'.”

“Is it a cookery book?” said Jeremy.

Mr Smith looked over the top of his glasses, disclosing eyes of a dreamy grey.

“Er—no. The question would, I fear, have horrified the author, who called his book
Candles for the Closet. Being Severall Profitable Discourses and Meditations by the Reverend Henry Harte, M.A. Together with Sundry Comfortable Observations as to the Imminence of a Notable Judgement upon Waste, Prodigality, Lying, Evil Living, and Other Crying Sins, as Proved by Divers Passages of Holy Writ.
Long titles were then the fashion. Do these things interest you at all?”

Mr Smith interested Jeremy a good deal. He said, “Yes, they do.” And as he said it, he was wondering whether a distinguished old gentleman who walked about with eighteenth century homilies in his pocket might not prove an efficient substitute for Jardine. It was quite on the cards that he would know a lot about old London.

“The Reverend Henry,” said Mr Smith, “deplored ‘the Licence of the Young.' He observes that ‘Children of the Age of Five, Six, or even Seven Yeares are permitted to Rompe, Shoute, and Disporte themselves instead of being kept to their Bookes or set to some Useful Taske.' He predicts ‘some Great and Manifest Judgement,' and considers that the end of the world may be expected in from three to seven years from the date at which he wrote. I do not think that he had any children of his own.”

Jeremy said, “I hope not.”

He was wondering at what point he could say, “Have you got such a thing as a map of old London?” It sounded most awfully abrupt when you put it like that. There was always the British Museum, but you had to have some kind of permit to read there. He didn't want to wait.

Mr Smith turned another leaf of the shabby book. Jeremy said quickly,

“You asked if I was interested in old things. I want most awfully to see a map of old London.”

Mr Smith turned another page before he said in an abstracted voice,

“What part of—er—London interests you—and what—er—date?”

“Well, it's a question of a house—an eighteenth century house—late eighteenth century, I should say. I want to know what was there before the house was built.”

Mr Smith was so deeply interested that he became more abstracted than ever. He continued to turn the yellow pages of the Reverend Henry's Moral Work.

“A seventeenth century map …” he murmured. “I have one of course—or early eighteenth century—yes, yes. … Here is what the Reverend Henry has to say about flowers: ‘These Gaudy Weedes aiforde an Ill Example in their Flaunting Colours and Wanton Growth. Like the Wicked, they exhaust the Soyle wherein they grow, and offer only an Empty Show in Place of Goodly Fruites.'”

“He seems to have been a bit of a kill-joy,” said Jeremy.

“He was domestic chaplain,” said Mr Smith, “for forty years to Selina, Countess of Brockington, a lady who atoned for a somewhat scandalous early life by an old age of considerable asperity. Er—if you would care to see the map of which I spoke, I should be—er—delighted to show it to you.”

“That's most awfully kind of you, sir.”

Mr Smith produced an old Russia leather pocket-book, from which he extracted a card which he handed to Jeremy. The card was inscribed:

MR BENBOW COLLINGWOOD HORATIO SMITH.

There was an address in the right-hand bottom corner.

“Any evening this week,” said Mr Smith vaguely,

“Thank you most awfully, sir. My name is Jeremy Ware, I'm afraid I haven't got a card. I'm in a secretary's job, and I never quite know when I'm going to get off.” He paused. Mannister would be at the Albert Hall to-morrow night. He could be tolerably sure of getting away. He said on the impulse, “I might be able to come to-morrow, if that would be all right.”

“To-morrow? Oh certainly—any time after half-past eight. I have—er—a number of old maps.” He put away his pocket-book, set his glasses back upon the bridge of his nose, and returned to the Reverend Henry. When Jeremy Ware got up and walked away, he was not however too much absorbed to follow him with a long, considering gaze. A feeling of satisfaction pervaded his mind, He had had a flair, and it had not misled him. He felt a pleasant conviction that at some time in the near future he would be able to say “I told you so” to Garrett.

It amused him to imagine Garrett's comments upon the events of the past half-hour. He had seen Jeremy Ware accost a shabby, frightened girl, pursue her when she ran away, hold a brief agitated conversation with her, and retire discomfited. Garrett would certainly put the worst possible construction upon this. To Mr Smith's absent, peering gaze it had been quite plain that there was some strong attraction between these two young people. He had observed the gentle kindness of Rachel's look before it was drowned in fear, and though he had no idea of what Jeremy Ware had said to frighten her, he did not for an instant suspect him of behaving to her with anything but respect. Those dreamy eyes of his missed very little. They observed every change in the young man's face. Even the incongruity between the girl's shoes and stockings and her shabby coat and hat had been registered. There again Garrett would produce a very obvious explanation—someone had given her the shoes and stockings, and doubtless someone else would in due course supply the other deficiencies of her wardrobe. Mr Smith did not entertain this explanation. In his somewhat old-fashioned manner of speech, he set her down as a modest girl. He had not the slightest doubt about this. It may be said that he had a habit of jumping to conclusions, but it should be added that these conclusions were very generally correct.

He sat a little longer and enjoyed the sunshine. He felt pleased with himself, and grateful to the Reverend Henry for having so successfully introduced him to Jeremy Ware. He hoped that Jeremy would come and see his maps.

“I wonder what Ananias will make of him,” he said to himself.

Ananias also had a flair.

CHAPTER XV

ROSALIND DENNY LUNCHED NEXT
day with Mimosa Vane. Mimosa's parties were the most ill assorted in London. Each guest wondered why the other had been asked, and why he himself had come. She had, to be sure, an admirable cook and an ever fresh supply of scandal.

Rosalind found herself sitting next to Mr Geoffrey Deane. He was small and neat, with fair hair that looked like a wig, and a dull precise manner. He wore steel-rimmed pince-nez. She could imagine that he was an industrious secretary. She did not want to speak about Jeremy, but every topic seemed to lead in his direction, A harmless remark about the weather induced Mr Deane to respond that it had indeed been very cold, and to volunteer the information that he had been laid up and obliged to go away for a change—it was very good of Mr Mannister to spare him.

Rosalind could do no less than comment on this.

“Oh yes—you're Mr Mannister's secretary, aren't you?”

Mr Deane smoothed his hair.

“One of his secretaries. He is an exceedingly busy man. I'm afraid my absence has thrown a great deal of work upon my colleague, but I hope to be back tomorrow. I should have been back to-day, but Mr Mannister has himself been away and does not return until late this afternoon. You know, of course, that he is speaking at the Albert Hall to-night.”

Why should she know? She felt provoked and bored. Dullness surrounded Geoffrey Deane like a fog. He had a flow of conversation which never flagged. He had an even, rather high-pitched voice and a meticulous and unnecessary regard for accuracy. He told Rosalind an interminable story about a speech which Mannister had delivered at Dulwich, and delayed his narrative indefinitely in order to resolve the knotty question whether the date was the fifteenth of February four years ago, or the twelfth of February the year before that. Mr Deane seemed a good deal worried over not being certain of this. He had as a rule, he assured Rosalind, a remarkably accurate memory. He hoped his illness had not affected it. It would be a most serious matter if it had. He told Rosalind all about his influenza, and then returned to Mannister's speech at Dulwich and told her all about that. She was thankful when lunch was over.

Mimosa pounced on her.

“Darling, were you
too
bored? I don't know why I asked him. You know how it is—I met him somewhere and said ‘Do come and have lunch with me,' and when he said, ‘Thank you—what day shall I come?' well, there we were. Of course he's
too
bromidic—but rather quaint, don't you think? And, darling, I knew you'd be nice to him, whereas if I'd given him to Vinnie, he'd probably have passed out before lunch was over. My dear,
too
embarrassing! Did he tell you all about Bernard Mannister?”

“He did,” said Rosalind.

“And Jeremy Ware? But of course you know all about him already—or do you? Such a secret face, don't you think?”

“What nonsense!” said Rosalind. “Mimosa, you do talk nonsense!”

Mimosa blew out a puff of curiously scented smoke. Her eyes were sharply malicious behind the haze.

“Darling—how too unkind! Of course I'm no judge—I was just thinking of what Gilbert said about him.”

“Gilbert?
About Jeremy?”

Mimosa nodded and drew at her cigarette.

“What did he say?” said Rosalind. (Why, Gilbert had thought the world of Jeremy.)

Mimosa laughed her little sharp laugh.

“Darling—how too horribly serious!”

“What did Gilbert say?” said Rosalind.

“Darling, I can't remember. I only know it gave me the feeling that he was just the least little bit distrustful. Of course I'm all for trusting people—it brings out the best in them, don't you think? Asphodel
always
says that. Have you been to see her yet?”

“No,” said Rosalind.

“I wonder what she said to Gilbert. Too strange of him to go and see her and not tell you about it. Men are so secretive, don't you think? If you do go and see Asphodel, don't give your name or anything like that, and then you'll be quite sure that she isn't being disturbed by outside impressions. I don't suppose she ever knew who Gilbert was. I don't think I could rest without finding out why he went to her if I were you—but then you're
too
self-controlled. Darling, I must go and talk to Vinnie. Doesn't she look terrible in green with those scars? Too unselfconscious of her to come. I don't suppose she'll ever lose them. Now, will you have Cruffles to talk to, just as an antidote? He can tell you all the bits the censor cut out of his last play. My dear—too sultry!”

“Thank you,” said Rosalind. “I'm just going.”

Mimosa embraced her.

“Asphodel's number is Park 000686—just in case,” she said.

She walked back to the flat. She was a fool to have lunched with Mimosa. She always left you rubbed up the wrong way. There was a dreadful oppression on her spirits. It had been deepening for days. She had gone to Mimosa's because any company was better than her own. Everyone and everything seemed to combine to thrust her back and set her face to face with the tragedy that had broken her life. The anguished questions which had rung in her ears ever since were now so loud that she could listen to nothing else. Why had Gilbert died? Who had driven him to his death? Why had he gone to see this fortune-teller, and what had she told him?

She tried to think of other things, but it was no use. The questions were always there, and if she relaxed for a moment, they were loud again.

She made up her mind that she would see Asphodel.

At once there was a certain relief. She knew now that she had been struggling against this decision for days. Gilbert was dead, and nothing could bring him back. She wanted to forget, not Gilbert, but all the tangled misery which had surrounded his death. She had been struggling against being forced to go back.

At the entrance to her block of flats she hesitated, and finally walked on. She would find out if Asphodel could see her, but she would not ring up from the flat and she would not give her name. She walked on to a public call-box. As she entered it, she was surprised at the lightening of her load. It was as if she had been pushing a heavy weight up hill and now had nothing to do but follow the slope of the ground and let it run down again.

She dialled in, had her two pence ready, and heard them fall with a sense of having burned her boats. The relief still held.

Presently a faint faraway voice said, “Yes?”

Rosalind tilted the mouthpiece a little.

“I would like to come and see—” She hesitated. Did one say Asphodel, or Madame Asphodel? She chose the latter. “Can I see Madame Asphodel if I call this afternoon?”

“Have you an appointment?” said the faraway voice. She thought it was a woman's voice, but she was not sure.

“No.”

“What name?”

“I would rather not give my name.”

The voice said, “I will ask,” and Rosalind was left with the sound of the current running.

She waited for what seemed an interminable time. Every now and then she said “Hullo!” The air in the box was used and heavy. Someone had been eating peppermints there, and behind the peppermint there was a faint stale flavour of scent.

Suddenly the voice said, “A quarter to four,” and with a click the line went dead.

Rosalind came out of the box, and was glad to draw a long breath. The afternoon was mild and muggy, with a little mist thickening the distance. It was a quarter past three.

She went back to the flat, looked up Tilt Street on a tape-map, and decided to walk there. It would be unendurable to have to sit and wait. It is easier to meet what you dread than to wait for it to come to you. Rosalind walked fast. There was colour in her cheeks. She was afraid, and she was facing what she was afraid of.

She asked her way once or twice, and found herself at last in Marsh Street. Bernard Mannister's number was 29. She looked up at the windows as she passed and wondered whether Jeremy was there. The house was just what one might have expected—a very fitting house for Mannister; a handsome, decorous, respectable house; the paint on the front door new and sober; the large knocker as bright as gold in spite of the gathering fog. The house occupied a corner site between Marsh Street and a side street. She noticed how far it ran back, and she saw that the side street was Tilt Street.

She walked along by the side wall of Bernard Mannister's house, with its tall evenly spaced windows, and came to the first house facing on Tilt Street. The door was painted black and bore the figure 1 conspicuously displayed in some white metal. She rang the bell of No. 1, and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a black dress without cap or apron. She had grey hair done in an old-fashioned way, down-cast eyes, and a bitten-in mouth like a trap.

The hall was the typical London hall, with an umbrella-stand and rather dingy paint. There were two doors on the left and a stair going up. The woman preceded Rosalind up the stair, turned at the half-landing, went up a few more steps, passed a door on the right, and threw open one that faced them.

Rosalind hesitated on a dark threshold, heard the click of the switch behind her, and went forward into a thickly curtained room. Not only the windows but the walls were hung with black velvet. There was no day-light at all. A single low-powered bulb shone through an alabaster bowl in the middle of the ceiling. The ceiling was black too.

Rosalind's lip curled a little. After all, what did she expect? A woman who called herself Asphodel would be likely to have all the tricks of the charlatan.

She walked a few steps and looked round.

The room was the ordinary first-floor room, its two high windows hidden by the velvet hangings. Such rooms either run back into an L, or are separated from a second small room by a party wall or a folding door. Here the black hangings ran flush with the door by which she had entered, and whether there was a wall or a door behind them it was impossible to say. A single small arm-chair faced the hangings at a distance of one yard. The light was directly over it.

The woman, who had followed Rosalind into the room, indicated the chair and withdrew. From first to last she had not spoken a single word.

Rosalind sat down a little scornfully. A woman who had real powers would not need to have recourse to such childish mummery as this. It surprised her now that she should have been so much afraid of coming. The whole thing was ridiculous, a puerile attempt to play on credulous minds. At least the chair was comfortable.

She relaxed, looked at her watch, and saw that it was just a quarter to four. She gazed idly at the black velvet wall. It was so near that she could have touched it by leaning forward. She leaned back instead comfortably, and then through the scornful amusement and the comfort there went a deep stab of pain. Gilbert must have sat in this very chair, and Asphodel had told him that he was going on a voyage round the world. Was that really what she had told him? He had gone farther than that.

She made a great effort to put Gilbert out of her mind. She didn't want to play into the woman's hands by giving her thoughts that were easy to read. She had meant to keep her mind a blank or fill it with trifles. Instead, the most poignant and agonizing memories flooded her whole consciousness. She sat up, locking her hands together, and quite suddenly the light overhead went out, leaving her in total darkness.